I am a Rock, I am an Island, I am a House
by blueheronz
Summary: He wants her, he needs her, he loves her. But can he ever have her? Katej describes this story as foreplay on crack. See for yourself. House and Cameron.
1. I am a House

**A/N: **

**This story began as an angsty one-shot, because one day when I was out walking my dog, these words popped into my head as if House himself were speaking through me: _I am a rock, I am an Island, I am a House._** **So I wrote the first chapter. Readers wanted it to continue, so I decided to keep going with it. I try to alternate between House's and Cameron's points of view, with an occasional chapter that is omniscient.**

**About reviews:**

**Your reviews are not only appreciated, but they give me the juice I need to keep writing, so if you like it, there's a wee blue button at the bottom of your screen...you know what to do. Also, please consider reviewing each chapter -- I do it whenever I read. It really does help encourage authors.****  
**

**The story is usually rated T, but contains some mature content and frank language and imagery.**

**Thanks to betas Timbereads and Nikita34 for everything.**

* * *

_I am a rock. I am an island._

_I am a House_, he thinks.

_A rock feels no pain; and an island never cries._

What about a house? A house can be inviting, warm, and cozy. A house can be a home.

Or it can be like him. Locked up like a fortress, protected by pain, occupied by no one. Except for a ghost.

House whispers, "Boo."

House has shut and barred the doors to most of his rooms. Only he has a master key.

_I've built walls, a fortress deep and mighty, that none may penetrate._

He hates to admit it, won't admit it out loud, but Wilson has come close to breaking in and finding some of the fundamental truths that make him who he is. Pathetic, as Wilson would say. Miserable.

Of course, Wilson has some inside information, being his self-appointed "friend." Before the infarction, and during the years with Stacey, Wilson was there.

He was _there for him._

It's true, House knows, as true as anything can be in a deeply dark and twisted world where nothing is certain except for pain.

His friend is still in the dark about the abuse. And there are plenty of rooms Wilson has yet to discover and explore.

_I have no need of friendship. Friendship causes pain._

Wilson should have gone into Freudian analysis, House thinks with a smile. He and Cameron could go into practice together, only accepting patients who were dying, or crippled. Damaged.

And there she is, haunting his thoughts like a spook.

Cameron.

_Don't talk of love. I've heard the word before. It's sleeping in my memory._

It's late. Staying at the hospital until after the wee ones leave has become a habit. He turns up the tunes on his iPod, hoping the beat of the music will drive thoughts of her away.

It's no good.

She's relentless.

He might as well tattoo _I want Cameron_ across his forehead. Want. Need. Love. What's the difference? _I want her, I need her, and I got to, got to, got to have her._ Some old song, he can't think by whom.

Images of her are monogrammed in his mind, etched in his heart, seared into his consciousness. They've seeped into his subconscious, too.

He's read every word of her articles. During differential diagnosis, he worries that he'll give himself away, quote from one of her papers.

Whenever he interrupts her with a sarcastic jab, or bulldozers over one of her insights, he cringes at his own behavior, and wonders:

_What would it be like to stretch out together on a blanket at a park on a sunny day, to listen to her talk, while her head rests on his chest? To react to her without the pain, without the cruel rules he lives by._

But he has to stay sharp and thorny. He can't afford to lose the edge that gets him through the day.

There are times his sarcasm and antagonism exhaust him.

_I am shielded in my armor. Hiding in my room, safe within my womb, I touch no one and no one touches me…_

He wants her.

He has imagined all the ways he could love her. Many of his fantasies are tender. In them, he takes her hand, examines the lines on her palm, strokes it with the pad of his thumb, and then gives it back to her.

He needs her.

Every time he sees her, there's the telltale pull of his groin. Whenever she's near him, it's as if they are in a magnetic field. When the pain gets so bad that the Vicodin has about as much of an effect as candy, he imagines her cool hand on his forehead, the other hand on his shoulder, soothing him. It's such a comforting image that he closes his eyes.

Some days -- some nights -- the pain is so bad, he doesn't even care about the idea of sex. He just wants her with him on the bed. He wants to bury his head against her midriff, and hold on.

And then there are the days – and nights – when all he can think of is burying himself in her, of parting her legs with his knee, and opening her like a flower.

He loves her.

There's never been a choice about loving Cameron. He's loved her all along. She's serious, humorous, quietly dignified. She has medical chops: she's professional, yet she has a human touch. When she becomes flustered, and loses her cool, when she looks him in the eye and challenges him, it sends him. He loves her steadfast presence at his side, although he usually leaves her in the dust.

He loves her.

She can never know.

* * *

**The next chapter is devoted to Cameron -- go ahead. You know you want to read and review it!**


	2. There's Something Between Us

**Disclaimer: Tisn't mine. Well, the story is, but the characters belong to Fox & David Shore. **

**A/N: Thanks to beta Timbereads, and also to Damfinogal, who agreed to read this chapter for me. Their help was invaluable.**

**Rating: T for mature content, frank language and sexual imagery. **

**About reviews: **

**It's simple: Reviews give me the juice I need to keep writing. So if you want to see more, show me some love. There's a wee blue button at the bottom of the page...you know what to do! **

* * *

She finds House in his office at 2 a.m. 

There's no_ reasonable_ reason for Cameron to be at the hospital at that hour – it's not as if he's paged her -- but she can't sleep.

Tonight, there's a phantom ache in her leg; she swears she feels his pain.

It's almost supernatural, as if he's beckoned her to him like Rochester calling for his Jane to cross the moors and find him -- broken, crippled, and alone. She thinks she hears him call her name; so to him she goes.

_There's something between us_, she thinks.

More than anything, she wants to be near him, in his space, surrounded by his things.

It's too much to hope for that he'll be there.

But there he is, reclined in the Aeron chair, his good leg sprawled on the desktop. Spasms of pain cross his face as he massages the damaged leg. He has shed his Oxford shirt and wears his usual uniform of a t-shirt and jeans. Cameron notices the bulge of his biceps as his arms work the muscle tissue where the necrosis occurred.

At the door, she hesitates. He's made it pretty clear he doesn't want her pity, her love, or any efforts to save him from himself.

_If ever there's a man who needs saving from himself, it's House_, she thinks.

She enters the quiet room anyway. It's dark, except for a tiny desk lamp.

House looks up without surprise.

"Hi," he says. Exhaustion shows around his eyes. Still, he makes a feeble stab at humor. "The hospital is a house away from home. I'm not much good for talk, unless you want to inject me with goodies."

A partially filled syringe is on his desk. She leaves it where it is.

Instead, Cameron does what she seldom has the courage to do. She touches him, placing her hand on his strong shoulder.

Warmth is a conduit from his body to hers.

Most of the pain has left his face, but she sees the telltale signs -- beads of sweat on his forehead, his fist clenched on his leg.

"What does it feel like?" she asks quietly. She's surprised, but doesn't show it, when he gives her a real answer, undisguised by sarcasm.

"Ever been in an electric chair?" House asks, looking up at her, and schooling the grimace on his face. "Of course you haven't. Me either. But, it's what I think it feels like. That or electro-shock therapy, or getting struck by lightning."

She moves around to sit on his desk, and rests her hand on his sneaker. She waits for him to ask the inevitable. What is she doing there? As if she knows.

She waits for him to tell her to go home.

Finally, he turns to her and asks her this:

"You've made it clear you don't believe in God...Cameron, what do you believe in?"

For a while, she stalls.

"Take off your shoes," she says.

House cocks an eyebrow at her. "What are you up to?"

"Just relax, House. Rest."

She firmly grasps a foot between her small, capable, doctor's hands. Her deft fingers find his reflexology points, and she strokes the smooth front of his foot, and then kneads the underside with her thumbs.

"You asked what I believe," she says quietly. "I believe in bones, because they last forever. I believe in DNA, because it never lies. I believe in getting to the heart of the matter."

* * *

_Cameron, what do you believe in?_

I believe in music, I believe in love, she jokes to herself. But she knows it's no joke.

She believes in beauty, truth, and hope. She believes in life.

And as for the man who proclaims that everybody lies? She believes in him, even if she doesn't always believe him. She believes in him, in spite of her misgivings.

She cannot help herself.

House stirs something primal within her. No other man has made her want to do the things she wants to do to House. At the slightest touch, she feels like she could come. Right now, with his foot between her hands, she can barely stand up. Is he hard? She'd like to look; she can't. The attraction between them is more than that. It's metaphysical. There's a sense that somehow they are close -- like now -- as if they share a rib.

Sometimes she wonders if they would have had a chance if it weren't for her own _faux pas_. She blames herself for the way things have turned out with House.

The mindless sex with Chase was her idea.

It was supposed to prove -- to House and to herself -- that she had a life, a life apart from House. On some level, she supposed she'd hoped that House would be jealous, or at least take notice. But it was clear that he was bored with it, that he considered it predictable. If she'd hired a gigolo, that might have piqued his interest. Unlike House, she respected herself too much to pay for sex – and she cared too much about what others thought of her to do it.

It's time to end it with Chase, because now Chase expects it. Now he follows her around with longing looks.

Chase is basically a good guy. She respects him as a doctor, and even considers him a friend. But as a sexual partner, well, he's so young. She's known his kind before. He's a pretty white boy with a pretty white ass, she thinks with a smile. But next to House, he's an amateur. With one look, House can ignite her. Chase's ardor is sweet, but to get off, Cameron has to imagine House parting her labia with his tongue, House pushing her against the bed, and House looking down at her, desire spilling from his eyes.

She's beginning to disgust herself. It's one thing to be woman enough to seek to satisfy your sexual needs, she thinks, and another to settle for less than what you want. Lately, when she comes, it's as if her body has betrayed her, betrayed House. She has stopped kissing Chase. Her colleague is a whiter shade of pale -- that's what she imagines Foreman would say about him, if he knew they were fucking.

The date with House had been all her doing, too.

It had been her undoing.

What was she thinking, on that silly date, asking House for the impossible? Asking House, of all people, to talk about his _feelings_ for her?

She should have known that feelings were the last thing House would share with her, or anyone else, unless it was to express his feelings of disdain for the Yankees, or his feelings of annoyance toward Cuddy, or the way he felt about clinic duty.

_All she could say in her defense was that he had given her a corsage._

Why hadn't she kept the conversation casual? She could have asked him why he specialized in nephrology, or why he became a diagnostician, or if he had always loved to solve puzzles and play games. Where had that love originated? She'd like to know now, and she regretted not asking when she had the chance.

House might have been relieved if she had talked about herself. He might have enjoyed himself. He might have enjoyed her.

She could have told him about the first time she peered into a microscope. It was in grade school. The teacher had showed them an amoeba. She'd been fascinated by the one celled creature. What other mysteries could she discover under the glass, she'd wondered? Maybe a single drop of rain contained a miniature universe.

He could have listened to her talk about the time her older sister broke her arm. The doctor had called the bone by its proper name: ulna. The word sounded so exotic, that the next time her mom took them to the library, she'd checked out "Gray's Anatomy," and began memorizing the names of all of the bones in the human body.

The words seduced her.

She'd lain awake at night whispering into the darkness, "_Mandible, clavicle, sternum, humerus, radius, coccyx, femur_."

To her, it was poetry.

Maybe if she'd done it differently, there would have been a second date. If there had been a second date, she might have opened up enough to tell House about Mo.

(_Her life has been a litany of loss_.)

What would House give to get his hands on her early history, she wonders? He'd kill for some of the stuff she could tell him about herself. None of it is in her chart, and the only one who knows it all is her friend Mia, from Mayo.

It started when her younger sister was diagnosed with leukemia. Allison was eight; Mo was three. She remembers the day that Mo was so weak she couldn't make it down the staircase. That was when her parents knew something was really wrong. Their family doctor screwed up. First he'd diagnosed her with a bad case of influenza. When Mo didn't get better, he'd said it was mono.

More than anything, it's what made Cameron become a doctor.

For two years, doctors tried treatments for the lymphoma. She learned for the first time about the difference between white blood cells and red blood cells. Chemo and radiation were on her radar at the tender age of eight, and nine, and ten. Mo lost most of her long, brown hair. It fell out in humiliating clumps. Her little belly bloated.

Mo died at home on the blue couch. Cameron wasn't there. Prompted by her father, her mom had taken the rest of them for "a Sunday drive." Her dad had wanted the moment for himself. He'd always loved Mo best. When the station wagon pulled into the driveway, the hearse was pulling away.

She never saw her little sister again.

Not long afterward, her grandfather died. Her parents dressed all of them up and marched them past his open coffin, his face waxy and lifeless. Cancer took him, and it attacked the pancreas of her Uncle Cal. He lasted three months.

It was ominous.

Most kids grow up thinking they're invincible. That wasn't the case with Cameron. She felt forever poised for loss, and she felt fragile. She knew that she could die at any time.

It took years for Cameron to get over it. As a teen, she developed phobias. She panicked at the sight of a hearse and refused to attend funerals.

When at 16, her friend Andy died in a car accident, all of the terror returned. Her imagination was too vivid. She pictured him crashing through the window of the car, and hurtling into the pavement, his head split open. Worse still was the dishonesty of Andy in his coffin, dressed in clothes he'd never have worn, with industrial strength makeup failing to disguise the lack of life.

The irony was that he'd been drunk, and that in favor of drinking a fifth of Peppermint Schnapps, he'd skipped out on their plans to go see "Reality Bites." And because of his choice, he'd died.

She'd been merely damaged.

Years of therapy had helped her overcome her fear of death. She had come to accept it with such grace that by the time she met her husband, John, the news of his cancer seemed almost ordinary.

John was ordinary. Boring, House would have thought, and said. Sometimes she thinks about the difference between the two men. House has made her out to be a vulture, circling wounded men. But House and the man she married were of a different species. They were nothing alike. There was no doubt in her mind that House was damaged, but, besides the cancer, her husband had been about as normal and well balanced as a bicycle wheel.

The last few months he'd required a feeding tube. The last few hours, a cobwebby substance formed at the back of his throat, obstructing his airway. She'd swabbed it out with a sponge. His breaths jerked in and out. Time passed. Gunk gathered in his throat. She'd cleared it out again, and again.

Death was like that.

At the end, more time lapsed between each breath. Breathing morphed into the death rattle. She kept saying his name, kept saying, "It's okay. It's okay."

It wasn't okay.

She'd been reminded of when she was a little girl. Curled up in the top bunk of her family's summer cabin, she'd listen to her father snore. His sleep apnea kept her awake, and worried. Would he take another breath? As a girl she was edgy, waiting for him to inhale. Just when she thought she'd have to climb down from the top bunk bed and shake him, he'd suck in a noisy gulp of air.

Finally, her husband exhaled. Time stopped.

Then it was quiet.

There is no quietness like death, she knows.

Still, he finally looked relaxed, at peace.

* * *

In the office, Cameron focuses once more on House, running her thumb along the arch of his foot, grasping his toes and bending them gently as far as they can go. 

A comfortable silence has prevailed, as she works her massage mojo on his feet. They're beautiful, poetic like his hands. She wants to him to lose the jeans so she can massage his calves, his thighs. So she can see his legs, and more.

_So she can do the things she wants to do to House._

She can't tell him that.

His eyes are closed, his face in repose.

_What has come over him tonight? What's come over her? It's like an intermission from their real life._

He breaks the silence, reaches for his socks and shoes and puts them on.

"Thank you. Thanks for that."

He stands, looks down on her from his six feet something. As usual, his eyes are like blue lasers, quickening her pulse.

"Are you hungry? And no, it's not a trick question. I'm taking the night off from being…." House picks up his cane and apes a golf swing. "An ass."

"A little, yes. But, what about your leg?"

House throws his free arm around her shoulder, and leans on her.

"It's bad tonight, but I'll live, Cameron. I'm going to live. Come on. Let's go split a pizza and a pitcher."

She nods her acquiescence, moved beyond mere words. Her spirit soars, her body sings.

Together, they walk out of the office, out of the hospital, towards Princeton and a slice of pizza.

* * *

**House is in quite a state in the next chapter, _There's Something Between Us. _****Can Cameron compete with a syringe of morphine? Read on to see. But first, review. **


	3. The Darkness Around Us Is Deep

**Disclaimer: I own a house. I own "House" on DVD. I like the movie, "My Life as a House." As for the show and its characters, they belong to Fox.**

**A/N: This is Chapter 2 from House's point of view. Please let me know if you like it: I struggled to balance a portrayal of House in physical and psychic pain and House making choices he might not normally make, and felt at times like I was juggling precariously. I hope you'll let me know if it worked. Also, should I keep the story going? Tell me!**

**Notes: Thanks to Damfinogal for reading and commenting on it. Please see her author page for her awesome House/Cameron story. And as always, thanks to my beta, Timbereads, for her help. Check out her new stuff, especially the hilarious parody, "Who Stole Steve McQueen?"**

**Warning: This Chapter contains some frank and graphic language/imagery. You have been warned.**

He's faithful to her in his fashion.

Even when he's with a whore, it's always her he's fucking.

Tonight he wants to hoist her on the desk, force her legs apart, and screw her until pleasure kills the pain.

He wants to mine deep inside to the hot core of her. Volcano metaphors come to mind. If he wasn't burning up, he could do better.

_When I was a child I had a fever…._

I am so fucking childish, he thinks. This isn't who I am.

_Who are you? Who are you? Who are you? Who are you?_

I'm a ghost in a wishing well.

If only he could lift her leg, raise her slender foot to his mouth; twirl his tongue between her toes until she screams.

_These are her hands on my chest, her teeth on my nipples, her tongue searing a path down to my belly, and lower – _

_Oh God. _

The shock of an electric current jolts his leg, and still he has an erection. He's rock hard.

_I am a rock._

These carnal thoughts might be tender if he wasn't feverish and crazy from the pain.

His leg gets so bad he wonders if he should have cut it off.

It's as bad as it has ever been tonight. He relates to animals that chew off their offending limbs.

On his desk, there's a syringe of morphine. He can't take his eyes off it.

The allure is that Vicodin is to Morphine what Molly Shannon is to Angelina Jolie, he thinks. Vicodin is to Morphine what a matchbook car is to a monster truck.

He's promised Cuddy he won't inject himself again. But then he lies.

Morphine masks the pain in his leg, but it also muddies his mind, and makes him dull.

_Boring_ is the last thing he wants to be. It's the ultimate insult.

He brings his bum leg up towards his chest, and massages it.

Soon he'll drive a nail into his hand like a real martyr, he thinks, darkly.

Bitter thoughts, like a Sumatran brew, and the roasted bean color of Foreman. _No sugar tonight in my coffee_….

And here he gets maudlin. He knows it, but there are no witnesses. The only disgust he'll earn by these thoughts is his own. He already lives with it.

_Cameron, for God's sake_, he thinks. _For the sake of the God that neither of us believes in, I need a little of that human touch tonight. Come here, but beware. I don't know what I'm capable of. _

How the hell did she infiltrate his fortress?

He is so fucked up tonight that if he were his own patient, he'd tell himself to get his head examined. Or he'd foist himself off on Chase as punishment.

Thank God Wilson isn't here.

_If only she was._

And then she is.

Cameron appears in his office in the middle of the night, when his pain is at its peak. For reasons he can't fathom, she appears.

Why would she come, after all he's said and done? Has she forgiven him for faking cancer, for not denying that he was sick?

Perhaps.

Cameron generally accepts him just the way he is.

For reasons of his own, he doesn't send her away. Part of it is pure exhaustion from fighting the pain. Part of it is his hunch that Cameron is damaged enough to _get him_ after all.

And then there's this: He crossed a line he thought he'd never cross when he let everyone believe he was near death. It wasn't his intention to deceive _them. _

It wasn't like when he'd stolen Stacey's medical records from her therapist. He admits he would have gone to any length to find out how she felt about him, and the hell with the consequences.

This was different. This was purely about him. If Wilson had left well enough alone – but that would never happen. Perhaps the only way to get Wilson and Cuddy off his back and out of his affairs is to behave in the one way they would never expect – _like a normal human being._

It's true he likes to keep his distance, rarely cares what others think, and prefers to be solitary.

But the team has become something of a dysfunctional family – _his _dysfunctional family -- and he _hates_ the word dysfunctional. They beat his own family, no pun intended, he thinks.

He pokes and prods them with his cane and his barbs; they bounce back like super balls for more.

He tells them they're boring, but what would he do without them?

The truth is that he finds them intriguing. Each has a back-story worthy of uncovering. He won't rest until he knows everything.

Another reason he lets Cameron in is the very reason he should keep her out.

The kiss.

He keeps reliving it.

_From the moment she enters his office, he knows how it will go down. The letter of recommendation, Cameron's brief display of faux courage, the renewed tenderness, and the tentative but determined way she moves close to him, claims him with her eyes. There is nothing to do but stand up and make it easier for her. He knows she wants him to think her motives are mixed. _

_Her hands on his face do him in. The way her cool fingers brush his lips, learning the planes of his unshaven face, it's as if he's one of those phrenology heads, he thinks, as she closes in on him. The warmth of her mouth unhinges his reason. His last sane thought is that this is treason, before he gives in and kisses back. There's never going to be enough time to learn her lips. Their tongues explore their tongues; she swipes hers across his teeth. His arms hold her shoulders and her back. She's so small._

It all comes flooding back.

Most of all, Wilson's to blame for House letting down his guard.

"House, you're becoming _predictable_. I think you're even starting to bore _Cameron_, and she's _stoic_. Someday soon, no one's going to care about your…_antics_. They'll start to see you as… _tedious_ instead of eccentric. Your _shtick_ is becoming…old hat. Eventually, you'll get your wish. Everyone will leave you alone. How will you amuse yourself, without all of us to pick apart and piece together again?"

Wilson gets to him. He will never, ever admit it.

Tonight, he'll choose to be human. He can practice on Cameron.

So when she comes in, he lets her stay.

Of all things, he says "hi," like a schoolboy. He knows he sounds insipid. "The hospital is a house away from home," he jokes.

It's pathetic.

"I'm not much good for talk, unless you want to inject me with goodies."

He indicates the syringe on his desk, but Cameron ignores it.

"What does it feel like?" She nods in the direction of his leg.

"Ever been in an electric chair?" he asks, rhetorically. He's doing his best to mask the pain. "Of course you haven't. Me either. But, it's what I think it feels like. That, or electro-shock therapy, or getting stuck by lightning."

She moves around him and sits on his desktop, rests a hand on his sneaker. Her presence helps his breathing return to normal. Even the crazed lust recedes, although there's still a residue of desire. He can finally let go of his leg, where he's been rubbing it.

For a little while, _I will let go._

For once, he does.

"You've made it clear you don't believe in God," he says. "Cameron, what do you believe in?" He really wants to know.

"Take off your shoes," she commands.

He hopes for more – _take off your pants _comes to mind_ -- _but he obeys her, asks, "What are you up to?"

"Just relax, House. Rest."

When she reaches for his feet, he's pre-programmed to resist. She firmly grasps a foot between her small, capable, doctor's hands. Her deft fingers find his reflexology points, and she strokes the smooth front of his foot, and then kneads the underside with her thumbs.

The ache in his groin grows, but the pain in his leg ebbs; his mind unwinds, as if her touch has eased it.

"You asked what I believe," she says quietly. "I believe in bones, because they last forever. I believe in DNA, because it never lies. I believe in getting to the heart of the matter."

What can he say to that? He rests.

For a while, he watches her eyes. Sometimes they're gray; other times they're green. His tiny reading lamp lights her from above.

He's read between her lines.

In her grave eyes he's spied humor, hurt, intelligence, and pride. Tonight, her face is relaxed, her eyes pensive.

_If I could read your mind, dear, what a tale your thoughts would tell…._

What is she thinking about? He could ask, he knows. Some day he will. Now he doesn't want to think anymore.

_Don't think_, he cautions himself. _Don't think about where all my blood is pooling as she strokes the arch of my foot, knuckles between the balls of my feet_. Does she know the effect she's having?

Finally, he closes his eyes. She has told him to rest, relax. He'll listen to her without having to say something back.

_Listen to her_. It sounds like something Wilson would suggest. Maybe he should listen to Wilson. If he had, the date with Cameron might have led to something, and he doesn't just mean sex. House had complimented her earrings, just like Wilson said. She'd been surprised by him, and treated him to a genuine Cameron smile. Now that was worth something.

The corsage had been his idea. He'd dusted off a courtliness he wasn't sure he'd ever had.

At the florist, he'd lingered, trying to choose between a day lily, a rose, or a peony. He dismissed the carnations as a tired cliché. Weren't peonies associated with funerals? They were waxen, and smelled of decay. A rose made a statement he wasn't sure he wanted to make. What flower would embody Cameron? An aster, maybe? Something purple, he thought.

In his leather jacket and Stones tee, leaning heavily on his cane, rumpled and unshaven, he felt out of place among the perfect hothouse blooms.

An orchid would be too exotic and cold. Gladiolas were too busy. Delphiniums? He couldn't remember what they looked like. Hyacinths were sickly sweet, cloying. There was something about a daffodil, but it was too yellow.

Wildflowers worked for him. He'd tossed a coin between a poppy and a daisy.

The corsage had been a hit. His restaurant pick went over big. He had been prepared to discuss the eatery's décor to death, or hold forth on the weather. How about those cumulus clouds?

And then predictably, he'd mucked it up.

That was then; this is now.

_Start small_, Wilson has suggested in the past. _Share a slice of pizza with a friend. _

More pop psychology from his _oncologist_ friend.

For some reason, the point behind Wilson's words sinks in. When House is being cynical – most of the time – he sneers at Wilson's efforts to socialize him.

Because of the divorces, Wilson thinks he can dole out advice about relationships, advice along the lines of _get back in the saddle again._ Maybe Wilson knows how to be a friend, but does he know the answer to this:

How do you get back to the way you were before the pain? And what happens when you don't remember a time when you weren't damaged? How do you live with the shame of a father's abuse? How do you _move on_ from that?

_And there it is_, as Dr. Cox would say on "Scrubs," which is one of House's secret pleasures. (It's a few steps up from a soap, so no one knows he watches it.) Everything is a cover for the shame. The physical pain he's lived with since the infarction just provides a conspicuous reason for the way he keeps his distance from the fray.

There's no one he can tell about the shame. He doesn't want to speak of it out loud. He hears his father's voice within his head, a refrain of "_idiot, moron, dimwit, get into that tool shed, stay there until you die from dumbness_." House blocks it all the time with the music from his iPod.

How the hell is he supposed to learn to love again, to live, when he never really knew how to begin?

_Start with one slice of pizza at a time_, Wilson would say.

A prisoner to pain, House will try this one small thing.

Like a leopard, he's pretty sure he's going to keep his spots. He can't abide boredom.

Cameron stops moving her hands on his feet, stops, and simply holds them.

"Thanks," he says. _Now how about a hand job_? He can't help his brain from thinking it. It's force of habit. "Thanks for that."

"Are you hungry?" He asks. _And do you want a ride on my satellite of love_?

"A little. What about your leg?"

He stands, stiff from sitting and the pain. Grabbing his cane, he throws his other arm around her shoulder, and leans on her.

"It's bad tonight, but I'll live, Cameron. I'm going to live. Come on. Let's go split a pizza and a pitcher."

She nods her consent. "We can play some darts."

It's just for one night, House reminds himself, as they walk out of his office, out of the hospital, toward Princeton and a slice of pizza.

It's just for one night.


	4. You and Me, Babe, How About It?

**Disclaimer: T'aint mine. **

**A/N: _They finally go out for pizza_: Readers, thanks for your patience. To everyone who has read this and reviewed it, especially those who give specific likes/dislikes, thanks for the encouragement. This chapter is dedicated to Tiflissa, who has been so awesome and kind. **

**If you like it, please review it. **

**Note: Still not smut, but there is some sexual imagery and language.  
**

The tavern is he takes her to is called "Deuces." Cameron has never heard of the place. A poker reference, doubtless. It seems redundant. But if it serves pizza, she's into it.

House seems to know it, and that's enough for her. She's pleased to be on his turf.

"This place is our secret," he hisses in her ear as they climb off his bike and remove their helmets. "Not even Wilson knows about it. Think you can keep it that way?"

"He'll never hear a peep from me," she says with a smile.

"You lie. You keep secrets the way Liz Taylor keeps marriage vows," House sets the record straight.

She doesn't deny it.

On the ride over, her body fit perfectly behind his. This felt primitive, her straddling him from behind. She was aware of the vibrations of the bike, and the way her clitoris pressed against House's back. She felt humming between her legs. It was like this with horses when she was a teen and used to ride. The friction of man and machine made her close her eyes. She had to force herself not to thrust her pelvis against him.

He takes her elbow and leads her inside. Her nipples harden at his touch. It's like she's been electrified.

The joint is nearly empty. A few blue-collar types await last call. The proprietor, a husky, copper-haired man wearing a white apron, wipes down tables.

Without looking up, he says, "Kitchen's closed."

"Open it," House says, rapping his cane against a tabletop. The man looks up, and then makes a face as if he wishes he hadn't.

House turns to Cameron, points at a table adorned with a red and white checked tablecloth, and a simple vase of lilacs.

"Sit."

Cameron watches from her ringside seat as House approaches the proprietor. At first she wonders if House is having a seizure. He's stuck his cane in the crook of an arm, and gestures rapid fire with his hands. Soon she sees that she can add American Sign Language to his resume. And he seems fluent. He raises his eyebrows maniacally, and motions at Cameron with his cane. He makes the sign for "crazy" and then signs, "She has her period."

She swears she sees House palm the guy a greenback.

In a moment, he joins her, sinking into the cushioned seat across from her, and stretching out his legs under the table. He still looks tired: Circles ring his eyes; but the pain seems to have receded.

The deaf man comes over carrying pale ales on a tray and sets one in front of each of them.

"What'll it be?" he asks, his speech slightly muddied by his hearing impairment.

They weigh the pros and cons of pizza toppings.

"Pineapple? That's for pansies. Wilson would order that," House says, with a grimace.

"Sun-dried tomatoes?" Cameron retorts. "I thought your taste was more pedestrian than that. I consider that topping to be firmly in the Cuddy camp. It's high class, in that annoying yuppie way."

"Green olives? Only James Bond would put those on his pizza, after downing too many martinis. Besides, they're too close to pickles."

"Why, because they're both green? What's wrong, House, wouldn't mommy let you leave the table unless you finished your vegetables?"

"Don't talk about my mother that way, you scamp, or I'll have to paddle you with my big cane."

"Onions. They're _yucky_, as you would say. Plus, what if we want to seal this date with a kiss?" Cameron says this with a smile. House still looks wary.

"This isn't a date." Then he narrows his eyes at her and taps his chin. "I think it's called a rendezvous."

"Same difference. Anyway, you can't be too careful about onions."

House finally orders, while the guy reads his lips.

"Who's your friend?" Cameron asks, after the red-haired man heads into the kitchen.

"He's not my _friend_," House answers. "He's pizza guy. He plays poker with me on Thursday nights. Wilson insists on calling him by his _name_. I never knew it."

"House, only you can make _friend _sound like a dirty word."

He looks up at her with half a smile. Real warmth and affection lurk behind his eyes. It hits her in the pit of her stomach, and the heat travels down between her legs. If she moved forward in her seat, her knees would touch his under the table. Damn his unshaven mug. Damn his Kryptonite eyes. She wants to grab his face in her hands and kiss him, never mind that she'd probably knock over a beer.

The last patrons drink down their shots and stumble out into the dawn.

_And then there were two. _

It's just them, and the leftover music from the coin-operated machine.

_You and me babe, how about it?_

Dire Straits play on the jukebox – "Romeo and Juliet." It isn't their choice.

God forbid.

_I'm no Romeo,_ House knows, rolling his eyes at the song. _I don't aspire to it. I wouldn't cut it as a romantic doc on "General Hospital," much less as a tragic lover in classic literature. _

On the one hand, he's philosophical about it; on the other hand, there's bitterness behind his thoughts. For a fraction of a moment, he wonders, _what if_.

What if his father hadn't hurt him? What if he hadn't had the infarction? What if Stacey hadn't left him? What if the pain disappeared? What if he could walk normally again?

He looks up and sees Cameron sitting across from him, her lovely face devoid of pity or need, and swears off thinking about what might have been if only.

_He's no Romeo_, Cameron reminds herself. He's far from it. House is as mercurial and messed up as Mr. Rochester, and nearly as mysterious as Mr. DeWinter, but he's no Romeo, and he's no Heathcliff.

This is it.

There's just the two of them, face to face in a restaurant, a steaming pizza on the table between them, the pie heaped with spinach, mushrooms and anchovies.

"You like anchovies, but a mere slice of pickle makes you squirm like a two-year-old," Cameron observes.

House resorts to his comeback line.

"I'm – complicated."

So far, Cameron has made an effort to keep the conversation light. She doesn't want to make the same mistakes she made on their ill-fated date. So, no questions that probe into House's psyche: not his Id, his Ego, or his Superego, as tempting as it is.

I'll leave that to Wilson, she decides.

She wants to see how this night will play out, and she's keeping her own cards close to her chest. The trick is to keep House's eyes on her face, not her breasts, she laughs, a Mona Lisa smile upon her lips.

That's easier said than done, she realizes, as she catches House checking out her rack.

He stares down at his hands, afraid if he looks up at her, he won't be able to look away.

She is lovely and sylph-like in jeans and a simple white shirt. The top few buttons are undone, so he can just see the curves of her breasts. Unlike Cuddy, she's subtle, classy, understated, and hot. He wants to reach out and feel her warmth through her clothes. He wants to rid the table of the pizza, and learn her shape, and help her to learn his own, especially down low where he's so hard. He wants to place his palm between her legs, and let it rest there for a while before making a move.

Fucking Mark Knopfler and his impossibly romantic lyrics, serenading the two of them against their will:

_I can't do the talk like they talk on TV_

_And I can't do a love song the way it's meant to be_

_I can't do anything but I'd do anything for you_

_I can't do anything except be in love with you._

"House."

Her voice stirs him, and he can't help it. He looks up into those cerulean hypnotists eyes. His gaze lingers. It's beyond him. All he did was look up, and now he's locked into it.

"What?" He wonders if his voice sounds as shaken as he feels.

_Don't ask me how I feel about you. _

"Do I have spinach in my teeth?"

You know you're whipped when not even a remark like that ruins the mood.

"There's an anchovy dangling from your rear molar, but nope. No spinach."

She closes her mouth, grins like a maniac, and looks back at him.

Her breath quickens.

To hide it, she asks, "Do you want to make a bet?

"When haven't I? What's the bet?"

"It's a stare down. We used to do this in grade school. Oh, stop rolling your eyes, House. They're going to get stuck in the back of your head, and then you'll be sorry. Come on. It's fun. Whoever can go the longest without looking away gives the other…"

"Flowers and candy? A _date_? A new car? A microwave oven? A trip to Tahoe?"

"Okay, Snarky."

"_Snarky_? Are you giving me a nickname? Is this a term of endearment?"

"Stands for sarcastic remark. You're an expert at it. How about this: If I win, you get stuck in a room with Wilson, your mouth sealed shut with duct tape, and you have to listen to whatever he says."

"Is Wilson's birthday coming up? Did Wilson put you up to this?"

"Wilson is clueless."

House rubs his chin. "Wilson _is_ clueless. What's in it for you?"

"Oh, I want to watch from an observation room. I'll get off on it. I'm sadistic like that. What do you want if you win?"

_Do I have to pick just one thing? _The pain returns to House's leg as he considers everything he wants from Cameron, and all he cannot have. Now his head hurts, too. He avoids thinking about his heart.

_Just a little is enough. _

Now it's Pete Townsend on the jukebox. He was much less annoying as the brains behind The Who. Just a little isn't nearly enough, House thinks. Just a little is just a little. You better bet your life, Pete Townsend. One Vicodin barely makes a dent in the pain these days.

It's true that sometimes it pays to be a minimalist. With the memory, tactile and psychic, of his kiss with Cameron, he'd gone far, at least in his imagination. House had replayed it, extended it, deepened it, deviated from it, made more of it than it could possibly have meant. Oh, he'd milked it.

Just one more kiss wouldn't cut it.

He's imagined an exquisitely slow round of lovemaking. In his mind's eye, her body is a Braille map his fingers long to memorize. He's pictured pushing aside her labia, with his tongue, and then with the head of his swollen shaft. He pushes himself into her, pulls back a bit; pushes further, making room for more of him, inch by tantalizing inch. He finds her wetness, her warmth.

He's dizzy from thinking of it.

_What do you want if you win?_ She has asked.

He has half a mind to ask her for a date. He wants to knock her off balance. She must be expecting him to make _sarcastic remarks_, to ask her for a blow job, a lap dance, for breast implants, for a threesome with Cuddy, for clinic duty, if he could French kiss her ass, anything of that ilk. God knows he could deliver it.

He stalls. "Isn't this game a little _childish_?" He says.

Cameron laughs. "You tell me, House. You would know. Or better yet: Ask your magic eight ball like a grownup."

He scowls.

"Come on. It'll get your mind off the Vicodin. You've been fiddling with that bottle in your pocket like Frodo clutching at his _precious_ ring."

Be that way, he thinks, uncapping the prescription and popping three Vicodin. He washes the narcotics down with a swig of beer.

"If I win, you dump Chase," House says, finally. "Your heart's not in it anyway. Your vagina's committed, but you could satisfy those needs with a gigolo, and besides, Chase dated a dominatrix. He's got to go."

Cameron sits back in her seat, poker-faced.

"Wow. Give me a minute."

"I'm not trying to question your choices or make a judgment. It's just that Chase is such a _dweeb_."

"Then why don't you fire him?"

"He's the perfect target for Foreman's potshots, and Foreman needs that, since Foreman's the perfect target for my potshots, and _I_ need _that_. This way, everybody's happy."

"Okay. I can't believe I'm agreeing to this, but I was going to end it anyway. I'm going to tell him in my own way, House. It can never get out that this was part of a bet."

It's because I'm severely sleep deprived, Cameron thinks.

"The way I see it, if I win, you win," House dares to say. "Look. If I win, I'll tell you a secret about me that no one knows. Not Wilson, not Cuddy, not my mom, not Stacey."

"And if I win, I win," Cameron says, gleefully.

"Shut up. Let's do this thing."

"I have an idea," Cameron says. She reaches out her hand and grasps his left one with her right. "Elbows on the table. It helps to arm wrestle in order to maintain eye contact. But remember, it's not who wins the arm wrestling. It's who maintains the eye contact. Got it?"

Her hand in his is cool from holding her beer. His is warm from the Vicodin in his bloodstream, and his proximity to her.

"Yeah." He makes a face. "How do we start? Do we count to one hundred? Close our eyes, then, one, two, three? What's the protocol? And were you pretty in grade school?"

"I was gangly. I had buckteeth until I was ten and the braces kicked in. I still won't eat corn because kernels used to get stuck in between."

He shudders. "Eeew. Before we get started: One caveat. I get to pick the jams."

"_Jams_? That word really ages you."

"At the rate I'm aging, _oh very young_, I'll be a _skeleton_ by the end of the night." House gets up and limps heavily over to the jukebox and flips through selections on the machine. He picks "Ramble On," by Led Zeppelin, and "Good Times, Bad Times," by Cracker.

"Hey," he says, sitting back down across from Cameron. "Can we talk while we stare? Are there any rules I should know about? Under that All-American girl with a dark, damaged past, I know you're devious."

"Okay. I'll lay it out for you. Basically, anything goes – but keep your other hand where I can see it. I don't want any shenanigans under the table."

He nods. "Ready?"

"Yup. Go!"

House bites his lower lip the way Cameron loves. He lowers his head, and raises his eyes to her. It's an almost purely sexual act, though she's sure he doesn't mean it that way.

Their eyes lock.

He tilts his head one way, and then another.

"Can we blink?"

"Yes, House."

Her eyes widen as House opens his mouth and sticks his tongue out and wiggles it at her like Mick Jagger.

"I want you. I want you so bad," she deadpans.

His eyes are pools of glassy blue – glassy from the Vicodin and lack of sleep, she guesses.

She could drown in them.

Their hands are entwined, and House wrestles her arm to the tabletop in a nano second.

He marvels at the feeling of her tiny wrist and the metacarpals of her hand beneath his.

Instead of letting go, he circles her knuckles gently with his thumb; he raises her hand to his mouth and traces the inside of her palm with the tip of his tongue.

She gasps.

"House."

"You said anything goes."

Her eyes cross and uncross.

"Hmm. That's attractive."

Her eyes are cerulean, with a hint of green. So intent is he on them, he sees tiny flecks of gold deep in the irises. Her lashes are darker than Foreman's mahogany skin.

House's pager goes off. He picks it up, listens.

"Can't. I'm _fixating_. You can analyze me later."

"Wilson?"

"Who else?"

"Have you ever played that car game where one person says a word, and the other person has to say a word beginning with the last letter of the first person's word?"

"My family wasn't big on games. But, let me guess. You want us to play it while were having our stare-a-thon. Too bad all the barflies left. We could have extended the bet and raised money for Cuddy so could afford reduction surgery on her mammoth ass."

"So, can we play? To make it harder, let's stick to medical lingo. I'll start. Nephrology."

"Yaws," House says. "Can you roll down your sleeve? Never mind. I can do it without looking."

"What are you up to, House?"

"Cameron said that anything goes. Yet she questions my every move," House muses, and then shouts, "Hey Cameron! It's your turn!"

She keeps her eyes on his. This is fun, but she wants to pull back and look at his whole face, this worn, bristly, face that has become so dear to her.

"Syndactyly."

"Yeast infection. Cameron, this is _boring_."

House has unbuttoned the fastener on Cameron's cuff, and rolled down her sleeve, exposing her bare arm. He wants to look at it, to see the blue vein in her bare wrist, under her alabaster skin, to kiss a path along it.

Both songs on the jukebox have played, and it's quiet in the tavern, except for the occasional sound of a dishwasher being cleared.

Except for their breathing.

"You've got nice eyes," she says.

"You." House says.

She feels his warm breath on her as he leans forward and cups her chin with his hand.

Gently, he pulls her face toward his.

And then the silence ends, as the sound of House's cane slamming against the table makes them cringe.

"God damn it, House! It's almost 6 a.m. Scram," Pizza Guy screams in their ears.

One of them starts at the sound and turns to the loud man.

The bet is over.

**A/N: Do you want to see this continue? Do you want to know what comes next? Please review and let me know if I should write another chapter.**


	5. A Look She Won't Forget

**Disclaimer: T'aint mine.**

**A/N: Many thanks for all your reviews and kind words as well as those who raised questions and/or provided constructive comments. I _think _I'm fully invested in this story by now, but please tell me if I'm wasting my time and yours. Review it, and give me your opinions. There is no financial gain or literary glory in this, so please, if you read it, review it!**

The sound of House's cane slamming into the table wrecks the ambiance. Lost is the intensity of the moment: her eyes and his fixed on each other's like rivals or lovers. Whatever was implied by House reaching forward, cupping Cameron's chin in his hand, and drawing her face nearer, has been misplaced by the violence of Pizza guy, whacking at their table with its lilac vase and the remnants of a good time.

His act changes everything: it's cause and effect. Cameron's head jerks up and her body presses back against the booth; a glass of scotch falls to the floor and shatters. The spirits rise from below and envelop them. Pizza guy, who wields the cane like a baseball bat, tells them to scram.

House remains fixed in his stare-a-thon mode, eyes narrowed and aimed where Cameron's were a second ago. He doesn't even flinch. But she loses her focus. Her hand slips from his, and her face morphs from fear to annoyance in an instant.

"You're going to give him a heart attack," she says, her quiet voice on edge. Pizza guy shuffles a bit, looking rueful.

"I'm sorry," he says. "That was obnoxious. I'm just really tired."

She nods her head in House's direction, and then, with sense of humor intact, adds, "After all those Rueben sandwiches, he probably has a heart condition."

House's mouth twitches at all of this, but Cameron misses it. By the time she swivels in her seat to face him again, it's too late. He has won the bet.

"Lose him. By Monday. " House says. He cocks an eyebrow and looks at her sideways. "That's the deal, right? You get rid of Chucklehead. Don't be a bad sport, Cameron. All you're losing is sex with Chase. My guess, not that I'd know from _experience_, is that a vibrator would be more exciting than an ex-seminarian."

In her head, Cameron weighs Chase's sexual bag of tricks with her high-pressure showerhead and smiles.

"I don't think you want to hear my thoughts on vibrators," she says, regretting the last two beers she drank. "Chase started to sweat when I told him how I feel about sex and the female orgasm. You know, how it can last up to an hour. I thought he was going to pass out from desire. You wouldn't fare much better if I went on about electric toothbrushes or the jet stream from a hot tub."

House looks from the slightly smug smile on her face to her throat, which he longs to kiss, down to the place where her breasts are just visible below her clavicle – he knows she's wearing a lace-edged bra -- and there he sees that her nipples are erect. It stirs him. His penis responds predictably as he feels himself becoming hard again.

"Sometimes I can't believe I hired you," he says, with exasperation. "Have you failed to detect that I suffer from acute satyriasis? Do you actually think I _don't_ want to hear you talk about the ways you pleasure yourself? You should know me well enough to know the pleasure would be all mine." He licks his bottom lip for the lascivious effect. "If you had talked dirty to me during the stare down, you might have won."

"Whatever." Cameron shrugs, determined to remain cheerful in the face of defeat. "I'll talk to Chase on Monday. You won, fair and square."

Pizza guy snorts at this. He lurks near their table, sweeping up broken glass. The remains of a 12-inch pie have been shoved to the side. There are tiny piles of spinach where House has picked off the offending greenery. Little crust corpses litter the pizza pan, courtesy of Cameron. Pizza guy grins and shakes his head.

"What?" Cameron asks, irritation lacing her voice like cyanide. The barroom lighting burns her eyes, and she's starting to feel the hollowness that comes from pulling an all-nighter.

The redheaded man takes off his Notre Dame baseball cap and scratches his head, then replaces it with the visor in the back. "Lady, if you know House, you know he's going to mark the deck."

"If by that you mean that he lies and cheats and manipulates, yes, I'm aware of it. If you mean that I've been had, well, where's the evidence?"

House clears his throat. "You don't want to answer that," he says to pizza guy. "There will be – _consequences_."

It's Cameron's turn to raise her shapely brows. "Oh, I think he does." She turns to pizza guy, looks at him closely. A metaphorical light bulb explodes in her head as she figures it out. "You helped him set me up, didn't you? Let me guess. It was when he went to pick out 'jams' from the jukebox. I wasn't watching. I was eating. He must have signed to you to come over at a certain time and get theatrical with his cane. Am I getting this right? Am I even close?"

Pizza guy comes over and extends a hand.

"Congratulations, lady. You're a quick study. You can play poker with me anytime. I'm Fitz. I own this place. Isn't House a pain in the ass? What are you doing with him?"

"I'm not _with him_ with him. And you? You're not deaf, are you?"

Fitz and House exchange glances. House gives him a nearly imperceptible nod, as Cameron looks on, arms folded.

"Nope. I'm coming clean here, lady. I'm just your average Irish-American schmuck."

"He's an out of work actor," House hisses. "I like to throw him a part now and then since he's obviously a no-talent ass-clown. Sometimes it works to my advantage on poker night."

"Isn't he a peach?" The sarcasm oozes from Fitz's gruff voice.

"None of this matters, because I won – fair and square, according to your rules, Cameron. You said 'anything goes.' Or were you referring to that frightful musical? By the way, you're sitting with your arms folded in front of you. When you do that, I get a great view of your mammorific spheres."

House leans across the table and makes a show of ogling her breasts. She grasps his shoulders and pushes him back in his seat, while imagining what it would feel like if he ripped open her shirt and teased her nipples with his tongue. Already they poke against her lacy bra. The image is vivid. If he laid one finger on her knobs, sensation would descend to her clit, and there would be more throbbing between her legs.

She shifts in her seat. Sometimes she thinks that they should get a room.

"You're right, House. You won. Get over it. But now we have to bet on something else. I have a dream, and it still involves Wilson sealing your mouth shut with duct tape and analyzing you."

"Lady, you deserve it for figuring out our little scheme. Hell. You deserve it for putting up with House in the first place."

"Stay out of it, pizza guy, or I'll make Thursday night Uker night and you'll have to partner with Wilson." House stands, leaning on the table for support. "We can revisit this whole bet thing in a moment. But for now I have to – if you'll forgive the vernacular -- whiz." He grabs his cane from Fitz's hands, and hobbles to the head.

Cameron leans back in her seat, hands folded in front of her. Fitz starts to clean up the mess on the table.

Suddenly a huge smile blooms on Cameron's face. "Oh, wow."

"What is it?" Fitz asks.

She looks up, grinning. "You just cost me a bet. You'll get nothing out of me."

Fitz transforms his face into a golden retriever's and she can't resist.

"Okay. I don't know what jogged my memory, but I was just thinking about the first time I heard about House. I did my internship at the Mayo Clinic. My best friend, Mia Cohen, was mildly obsessed with him. She liked to tell urban legends about him. It's just funny, thinking about it now. So much has happened since then."

_One noon hour Mia had found Cameron in the cafeteria. Mia had been to one of House's rare lectures at Princeton and had lived to tell the tale. Over salads and iced teas, she'd raved about the experience. _

"_There's no one like him. Haven't you heard about him? He's got a reputation the way a skunk has B.O."_

"_I've heard he's a great diagnostician," Cameron said, levelly. "I've heard he's the best there is when it comes to infectious diseases. That's all I've heard."_

"_Allison, sometimes I think you live in a cave."_

"_I'll admit to being a lab rat. But, what's so great about this Dr. House?"_

"_The guy's got a bum leg," Mia said, as if it qualified the physician for a Golden Globe. _

"_So what? Stephen Hawking is in a wheelchair. You don't get extra credit for being handicapped."_

"_Yeah, but with him it's kind of sexy, like when a soap opera hero wears an eye patch."_

_Cameron looked skeptical. "Hmm. Soap opera and hero. Isn't that an oxymoron? I put soaps in the same category as sports. They lower your intelligence."_

"_That's right. If it's not under a microscope, Cameron won't watch it."_

"_Anyway, back to sexy lame guy." _

"_He's an equal opportunity asshole: No one is exempt from his scathing diatribes. He walks with a cane, and uses it as a prop the way W.C. Fields wielded a top hat."_

"_You've got a way with a metaphor," Cameron said, smiling at her friend._

_Mia waved her away. _

"_He's as tall as God, has a voice like a snake bite, and an ego the size…."_

"_Of Texas?"_

_Mia grinned. "I was going to say the Pacific Ocean."_

"_Do you read much American folklore, Mia? Because the way you talk, he sounds like a medical Paul Bunyon."_

"_You haven't even heard the best of it. Apparently, the man plays the piano like Vladimir Horowitz, or maybe Ray Charles, or possibly Elton John. I heard he's a brilliant pianist. Rumor has it he shoots up heroin, and he never, ever sees his patients."_

_Cameron let out a laugh, and speared lettuce, cranberry, a candied pecan and some feta on her fork. _

"_You learned all of this from a lecture? Can you even tell me what he talked about? How much of this is true, I wonder? Coming from you, I subtract 75 as your over-active imagination."_

"_Some of it may be rumor," Mia acknowledged, her black eyes full of humor and smarts. She was short, with the musculature of an amateur gymnast, and straight, no-nonsense hair. She eschewed all makeup on principle. "But what matters is this: I heard he's looking for an immunologist to join his diagnostic team at Princeton Plainsboro. You could learn a lot from him – this I intuit. You should think about it."_

_Cameron pushed back her plate; she sipped her tea. _

"_I'll look into it," she promised her friend. _

"A good memory, huh?" Fitz asks. He has sat down across from her while they wait for House to get back from the bathroom.

"Yes. It reminds me of how much I miss Mia. She's still in Minnesota. I need to call her and invite her to visit. And it cracks me up to think about how well she summed House up. So, how long have you known him?"

Fitz smiles and shakes his head at her. Constellations of freckles reside on his broad face. His eyes are an ordinary blue, but warm as the Caribbean. If it weren't for the few extra pounds girding his waist, he could pass for good looking, Cameron thinks.

"I'm under a strict vow never to give out any personal information about House. We have a deal. But, I will tell you this, because you're exceptionally lovely, and you seem like a nice lady. House has never brought anyone here with him before. That's one thing. The other thing is just an observation. It might have just been me, and I know you two were playing some sort of game, but I could have sworn that House was going to kiss you."

Cameron touches her lips, as House appears at the table.

"You two look – cozy. Move," he orders Fitz. Fitz slides over in the booth to make room for House. "No, beat it. This isn't a party."

Fitz shoots a 'whatever' look at Cameron, and skedaddles.

Cameron fixes House with her truth or consequences expression.

"So then, what is it? It's not a party. It's not a date. It's dawn and then some. I'm beat."

She doesn't want the night to end, never mind that it's already morning. Events from the past several hours cross her mind like unfinished business. Looking House in the eye has had an effect. While they played the staring game, there were instances when she felt like she penetrated the exterior of his iris and dove deep down inside of him. It was intimate. And then, when Fitz had interrupted them, the feeling had vanished. She felt so close to House one moment, and faraway the next. It was as if a cool breeze had passed between them, where before the temperature was tropical.

The color of his eyes reminded her of her favorite painting, "L'Embrace, from Picasso's blue period, and not just because of the predominant hue of the piece. She considered the painting a simple statement on intimacy and trust. It featured two strong-limbed figures holding one another in a loose clasp. The woman looked like she might be pregnant. Cameron had seen it on a family trip to Europe. Her reaction to it was immediate and as intense as desire. She'd sobbed. The image had resurrected a cosmic sense of loneliness. It was something that she lived with. Sometimes House helped her forget about it. He distracted her from her own losses the way video games, soaps and hookers distracted him from his pain. More often she felt loneliness more keenly because of his presence, and what had failed to develop between them.

_She is reminded of an experience she must have buried in her subconscious. It is of the first time she ever saw House, although at the time, she wasn't aware of it._

_In Princeton for her job interview at PPTH, she passed a stranger on the street. He was a tall man, striking because of the cane he used, the indefinable blue of his eyes, and the charge that passed between them as they exchanged a glance and then moved on. The fact that their eyes met was surely happenstance or fate. Cameron had been left with the impression that she knew him, that more intimacy had been exchanged in a single look than you get when you swap spit. She was sure she'd never seen him before and that likely they would never meet._

_When Cuddy had led her to House's office for her interview, she was unprepared for her reaction when she saw the man with the cane and the penetrating gaze. He'd looked her up and down, but no recognition had crossed his face._

House stands in front of her, looks down at her with concern. Emotions cross his face, and then vanish like moisture in a desert.

"I would love to stay here and keep looking at your face. I suppose it's not your fault it's perfect," he says. The man can make a compliment sound like an insult. "But you're tired. We're both tired."

A seed of hope sprouts within her heart. Before, she couldn't look away from him because she wanted to win the bet. Now she can't look away because she worries that she'll never see House like this again. His wit is as scythe-like as ever, but these little pockets of tenderness undo her.

Here they are again, House thinks, unable to look away.

_Can't we just stay like this, like the lovers in that insufferable poem of Keats that Wilson likes, the lovers who are forever about to kiss but never kissing? In the same Ode to whatever Keats gets so high on the dismal romance of the situation he can't help himself, and pens the lines, "More happy love, more happy, happy love." He must have been feverish from the tuberculosis, House reasons._

_So this is what it's like to have his heart declare war on the reason he so prizes. Sometimes his feelings threaten to destroy the walls of his fortress._

Suddenly he's tired. Physically, he's beyond exhausted, and yet strangely charged. He questions the state of his head.

"I have a proposition. This is purely for convenience, so don't get any ideas, Cameron."

"What are you thinking?" She asks.

"That's a dangerous question to ask a man with satyriasis, but then you spaced out on my symptoms."

"House, out with it."

"Let's go to bed."

Cameron keeps her eyes on his; he can see her pupils contract. Her mouth slackens in astonishment.

"Mick Jagger said it best. Let's spend the night together. It's not a trick. We're both tired. Your car is at the hospital, and we're closer to my place. We can go there and – what is it you kids say? Crash. Wilson's already christened my couch."

Waves of fatigue hit her. Driving seems like too much for her brain. She's operating on fumes. Her competitive nature still holds sway.

"What about the bet?" She asks. "Speaking of Wilson."

House rests a finger on his chin before answering.

"You're like a bird dog. Persistent. We can resume later in the afternoon, after both of us sleep, and after the Undertaker kicks some ass."

"Oh, God. Wrestling?"

"You might like it. It's the next best thing to Monster Trucks."

"What's the bet going to be?"

"We'll play Twenty Questions. We'll figure out the stakes later."

"My family played a version of that game. It was fun. Okay, you're on."

As soon as Cameron says it, she regrets it. Playing Twenty Questions with House is akin to playing Russian roulette with a fully loaded gun.

A huge yawn escapes her. House holds out his hand and pulls her up. She sways near him, and the smell of leather coupled with the heat of his body just about knocks her off her feet again. He wavers for a moment, massaging his bad leg, and then hands her the helmet, and fastens his own.

On the motorcycle ride to House's home, she almost nods off. It feels so good to be fitted snugly against him, with his leathery smell flooding her senses.

At his place, it's awkward. She brushes her teeth with her index finger. The apartment is as she remembers it, the piano figures prominently into its schema. House has given her one of his tees to sleep in. He has made up the couch like a bed, and pulls back the covers like an invitation. They both stand by the couch for a moment. House leans heavily on his cane. As usual, he dwarfs her. She can tell how drained he is, and so she marvels at the pure sexual energy that crackles back and forth between them. Her pulse beats out a rhythm between her legs. He leans toward her, a little unsteady on his feet, and then pulls back. They are like soldiers who advance and then retreat. His eyes are on hers. She reads what's in them. It's a look she won't forget.

"Good night," he mumbles, turning toward his bedroom.

"Good morning," she says to his back.

**A/N: Is this salvageable? Should I continue? **


	6. He Who Knows Everything

**Disclaimer: T'aint mine.**

**A/N: Once again, thanks for reading and reviewing. Your encouragement means a lot. There is no financial gain or glory in writing this. I am in the process of posting this fic at LiveJournal, where I have an account under the same name. Feel free to visit me there and read my journal, too. I do write entries about "House" and about my philosophy of writing "House."  
**

**Rating: This is rated T for some explicit sexual terminology.**

She wakes first.

For a moment, she's disoriented. Then it all floods back. Her late night visit to House's office, where she found the man practicing his own form of pain management, the foot massage she gave him -- a spontaneous gesture, and their subsequent trip to Deuces for drinks and a pizza. She remembers challenging House to a stare down, and losing a bet.

Sunlight strains the seams of the slated drapes. A strip of it crisscrosses her face. She blinks and squints. A damp spot on the cotton case means that she has drooled on House's pillow. If med school and work as a doctor has taught her anything, it's that sleep is a commodity: take it when you can get it.

Apparently she has done just that. A clock on a bookshelf tells her it's after two. She's managed nearly eight hours. It's practically a record. Most Saturdays she's up at dawn for a six mile run. This isn't most Saturdays. Most Saturdays aren't proceeded by Friday all-nighters spent hanging out in pizza joints with House, then "crashing" on his sofa.

She rubs her eyes and sits up. Near the clock on the bookshelf there's an object she recognizes. Throwing back the plaid coverlet, she slips from the couch and pads over to examine it. In a blue pot, a cactus grows. It has been placed strategically for optimum sun saturation, she notices. A tiny note card is propped in front of it.

_House,_

_Merry Christmas. This reminds me of you. Feel free to improvise on the metaphorical significance of this gift. Your constantly caring subordinate,_

_Allison Cameron_.

Seeing it, she grins. With its prickly surface, tough skin, and cocky stance, it's House all over again. And yet it's attractive. The base of it is green, but it has extensions that are pink and yellow. Its form has a pleasing symmetry. Despite its considerable appeal, the plant keeps you at arm's length. If you get too close to it, you might get hurt. Instructions that came with the cactus said that it tolerated neglect.

The fact that House has kept the note and hasn't killed the cactus touches her. Is it a sign of a sentiment House rarely reveals? Or just something that makes him laugh.

She tiptoes over to the piano. Books are haphazardly stacked on top of it. A collection of the poems of W.B. Yeats catches her eye. Picking it up, she sits down on the piano bench and opens it. There's an inscription. In a loopy script, it reads,

_For Dr. House, who believed in my sanity against all odds. Gratefully, Lucy Palmeiro_

Cameron smiles. She remembers the case of the woman who they thought had schizophrenia. Lucy's craziness had fascinated House. Once they discerned that her problem was copper poisoning, he'd lost interest.

House had a penchant for finding out what made people tick, as if each was an equation. Cameron often wondered what his psych rotation had been like.

A few of the poems in the book have been dog-eared, but she's not sure if it was House or Lucy who marked them. At one of the poems she pauses, caught by these lines, which have been underlined:

_We sat grown quiet at the name of love;  
We saw the last embers of daylight die,  
And in the trembling blue-green of the sky  
A moon, worn as if it had been a shell  
Washed by time's waters as they rose and fell  
About the stars and broke in days and years.  
I had a thought for no one's but your ears:  
That you were beautiful, and that I strove  
To love you in the old high way of love;  
That it had all seemed happy, and yet we'd grown  
As weary-hearted as that hollow moon._

It's been years since she's read it.

Actually, it was her husband who had read it aloud to her. An English major who hoped to become a writer, John was a mild-mannered studious sort who hated sports and loved literature. He wasn't effeminate, or even pretty the way Chase was, but he wasn't chock full of testosterone, either. It was his tender heart and not his physical prowess that had drawn her to him. Of course not long after their marriage, his cancer had really kicked in.

Cameron was a little sad to realize that a few days had passed since she'd thought of him. Since she'd started working at Princeton Plainsboro, there was little time to daydream, and when she did, she felt like she was cheating on John's memory. Her psyche was occupied by treacherous thoughts of House. House had a way of crowding everyone else to the nooks and crannies of her mind while he took up the forefront. And the thoughts were anything but benign. They were the kind that made her glad that no one could read her mind -- thoughts that made her feel guilty about her extreme level of sexual attraction to the man.

The main thrust of her relationship with John had been affection and friendship, not lust. The sex hadn't been as good as she'd expected. She hadn't thought sex would matter as much as it ended up mattering to her. And before that, her experience had been limited.

Things were different now. As a doctor, scientist, and lab rat, and as a curious, intelligent, passionate woman, she thought about sex, a lot. She was still mildly embarrassed by the time she'd cornered Chase and went on and on about the body's reaction to sexual activity and the miracle of the female orgasm.

Sex with Chase had involved more energy and enthusiasm than skill.

And then there was House.

In almost every way, House was dogged. Certainly he persisted in haunting her subconscious, appearing in her dreams and taking up space in her head during the day when she should be concentrating on work.

It was hard not to compare House with John – with the memory of John. As he lay dying, John had withered from within. His body had caved in on itself, and even before that, the attraction was always aesthetic.

With House, it was dramatically different. House was like Technicolor. He was vivid. For an emotional cripple with a useless leg, an addiction to painkillers, and other deep-seated issues, House personified the life force. Widely reputed as miserable, House exemplified vigor. He was vitality itself. His limp hardly interfered with her impression of him as the most intellectually and sexually potent man she had ever known.

And he thought she liked him because he was damaged.

Well, the cane was kind of a turn on, she thought with a smile.

She looks around the living room for more insights into her boss, like maybe a copy of the Kama Sutra. At the top of a bookcase, out of her reach, is the trumpet presented to House by John Henry Giles, the jazz great who had come to them resigned to death – determined to die from Lou Gehrig's disease.

Her thoughts turn from sex to music. Cameron browses though his CDs, noticing he has a turntable and shelves filled with old LPs. Some of it is stuff she already knows he likes. The Rolling Stones and The Who are prominently featured. With his piano playing prowess, she's not surprised to see that he collects records by Traffic, Steely Dan, Ray Charles, Yes, Ben Folds Five, and other artists known for their keyboardists. There are even a few records by David Bowie, the ones in which Rick Wakeman or Mike Garson play piano.

She silently thanks her older brother Chas for the vast knowledge of rock and roll he passed on to her, and she wonders who influenced House's taste in music.

There's also Glenn Gould, Simon Barere, the Vladimirs -- Horowitz and Ashkenazy, Van Cliburn, and a host of jazz musicians she's never heard of. She pulls out record albums and finds names like Pinetop Perkins and Jimmy Yancey in the liner notes, along with references to Chicago piano blues.

She pulls out a disc by Yancey just because she likes the name of the song, and carefully places it on the turntable, making sure the volume is turned way down.

The scratchy, melancholy sound of "How Long Blues" begins to play. Cameron sits down on the floor to listen and does a few yoga stretches to counteract the stiffness from sleeping on the sofa. The next song is "Trouble in Mind," and there are vocals on this one. Consulting the liner notes, she notices that a Mama Yancey is credited. His wife? She doesn't know.

"I'm gonna lay my head on some lonesome railroad ties

and let the midnight freight train pacify my mind," the woman sings in a rich deep alto.

Ouch, she thinks. But, some days are like that.

And some days, the best thing for the blues is a great cup of coffee. Cameron decides to check for java supplies.

In the kitchen, she opens cupboards looking for coffee. What brand would House buy? She finds a bag of ground Sumatran from Tiffany's, a local coffeehouse that roasts its own beans. Opening the bag, she raises it to her nose and sniffs. She can't help but grin at how happy she is. Tiffany is the best coffee she's ever had – but House never buys it for the office. She'll have to remedy that. She prepares the brew using water from a Brita.

While waiting for the black magic to drip from House's snazzy Cuisinart, she looks around.

A shelf adjacent to the kitchen is strewn with unopened mail. Cameron fingers some envelopes at random and notices bills, credit card solicitations, sweepstakes offers, and then, amid the chaos, a ream of letters held in place by a rubber band. They, too, are unopened. She glances at the return address on the letters, and the name scrawled in the left hand corner is unmistakably that of House's father.

How curious, she thinks. How odd. She's aware that House doesn't "like" his father, but this seems extreme. She tucks the information in the file on House she keeps in her brain.

House. What is she going to do with him? Why can't she just walk away from him? Why, when he's done despicable things – faking cancer comes to mind -- does he come off as sympathetic? He had been nearly likeable last night, with his vow to take a night off from being an ass.

The aroma of the coffee was heady. Cameron noticed that House's bedroom door was open a crack. She wants to see him.

She wants to see him.

Her nerves buzz anxiously at the prospect of checking the bedroom, but her curiosity wins.

She just can't stay away from him.

Stealthy as Steve McQueen, she pads to his room, and peers within.

House still sleeps.

He's sprawled out on his back with a pillow under his head and a lightweight blanket covering his long, muscular frame. One arm is flung out to the side; the other arm is positioned so his hand rests on his hard stomach. Even relaxed, his biceps and tendons are taut, and Cameron imagines them wrapped around her, molding her body to his or pinning her down on the bed.

The shape and heft of his engorged prick is evident underneath the thin blanket. His face is relaxed. He's kicked one foot out of the confines of the bedclothes. She remembers holding it in her hands and stroking its arch, tendons and between each metatarsal.

Scenarios take shape in her mind: He props himself above her on the bed, a question in his eyes, and then slides down so his hard shaft teases her, his thumbs idly circle her nipples. He gives her the sad half smile and traces her mouth with a finger.

She's always known that somehow, behind all his egocentric rants, grating remarks, and immature acts, there's a sensual side to House. Since they first met, she's known that he is the man who can play her body by ear, who has learned her secrets places without ever having touched her, who would know her if they met again in another life, who could find her in the dark and turn on her inner light. Part of him is wholly body and sensation, an existence in which slow, sensory exploration rules, where each touch or stroke, each thrust or move feeds a great curiosity and fills a void where pleasure used to be.

If ever there was a lull in her desire for House, it has passed. Looking at him makes her pelvis ache.

Her heart registers tenderness.

Tears spring to her eyes, because finally it hurts to want someone so much. She aches with it, craves him, and wonders how she will keep this to herself when he opens his eyes and sees her:

_He who knows everything._

**A/N: I'm at work on Chapter 7 -- the game of 20 Questions, and what I like to call the big bang -- and _with a little encouragement from readers_, could perhaps have it posted by next week -- with encouragement. **_  
_


	7. The Rules Do Not Apply

**A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Houseluvr, a truly encouraging and supportive friend. Thanks to her, Nikita34, and Timbereads for reading and acting as betas for this chapter. Nikita34 offered a really careful reading – thanks!**

**Caution: **

**This chapter toys with a bit of smut. It's in the form of a dream and is, I think, in character and true to the story. Because of the dream sequence, this story is rated "M" **_**until next week**_**, when it will return to its "T" rating.**

* * *

In his dream, she's straddling him.

All of her creamy skin is on display, a visual feast. Her hair forms a curtain around his face as her tongue sweeps across his mouth, parting his lips. The buds of her high, firm breasts are swollen and dark. She grips his face in her hands forcing him to look her in the eye, recognize her feverish desire.

He's never been _this hard, this big_.

Above him on the bed, she grasps his cock, moving her hips so its head brushes her bush, dips toward the hot wetness between her legs.

She has tied a cloth around his mouth. It stops him from crying out.

If he could, he'd say:

_I want to push your legs apart as far as they can go and thrust every inch of me inside you, penetrate you with my rock hard erection._

_At first I'll go slowly, fill you while you watch._

_And then I'll fuck you._

Just the word "fuck" swells his rod exponentially. He's hard beyond his wildest sex dreams, because in this dream, he's fucking Cameron.

He'd say anything to get inside her.

He'd groan, curse, shout, beg, say fuck. _Fuck_.

Fuck me.

_He wants to touch her, to tease her clit, flirt with it using fingers, mouth, and tongue – the ball of his hand._

_To pull her down until her tight hot wetness surrounds him_.

_To toss her on her back and dominate her with the immensity of his erection._

_To mine into her cavern inch by inch by inch, and then pull back and start again – but only if she begs._

_If she pleads with him, he'll forge ahead once more, and fill her up, again and again. _

But his hands are loosely bound to the bedposts.

* * *

Cameron's slight figure leans against the doorframe of House's bedroom. Her arms are folded under her small breasts and her head is tilted a little to the side as she stares at her sleeping boss. She's dressed in his "Can't Buy a Thrill" t-shirt. It comes down to her knees, so she looks like an urchin.

The muted sun emitted from the blinds casts her in its glow: red highlights show in her mahogany hair. It's loose around her shoulders. She bites her bottom lip. Even a stranger could read the look on her face as one of rapt desire mixed with a bit of hope and a bit of sadness.

This she knows:

_I should run, not walk, away from him, get dressed, pour myself some coffee, and make us some breakfast, then check for the newspaper and work on the crossword:_

Anything but this.

Instead she moves closer to the bed. House's eyes jerk back and forth beneath his lids, so she knows he's in paradoxical sleep and probably dreaming.

Her eyes move from his face to the outline of his erection, its long, wide shape vivid beneath the thin coverlet. Sometimes she feels likes everything she sees is under a microscope. Are those veins throbbing in his penis? Is it her imagination, or is he uncircumcised?

Think like a physician, Cameron, she scolds herself, leaning her hip against the bed. Nocturnal Penile Tumescence is a side effect of REM, when the _corpora cavernosa_ becomes engorged with venous blood --the _corpus spongiosum_ to a lesser extent.

But the visuals have an effect. She remains in a state of arousal. If anyone studied her, they'd notice that the lobes of her ears are swollen, her nipples are erect, and her lips are parted.

Her tummy flip-flops the way it always does when she's near House. Heat spreads through her body. Her clit fills with blood, a bud waiting to unfurl.

_I know what I want. I know what I want from him, she thinks._

She is so fucked.

* * *

All House wants to do when he wakes is to take care of business. His wet dream wasn't _wet_, and his distended shaft feels like a sperm whale about to spew.

A little Vaseline, a glossy of Angelina Jolie and some hand action should take care of that, he thinks.

And then he opens his eyes.

A barely dressed Cameron stands by his bedside. Her small frame swims in his extra-long tee, but it's her expression that captures his attention. Either he's hallucinating, or Cameron is checking out his package under the blanket like it's a landmark.

His pathological need to take advantage of finding her in a compromising position rivals his physiological need to _get off_.

His hand shoots out and he grabs a handful of her shirt. Color floods her face. Her eyes graze his, ablaze with more than embarrassment, although there's plenty of that.

"Are you _window shopping_, or are you in the market? Because I don't allow loitering on the premises."

Cameron opens her mouth to speak. A fire burns behind his blue eyes. It singes her. She remains silent, but she doesn't look away.

"It must be quite an eyeful, especially when you need a high powered microscope to see Chase's wee Willie Wonka."

Cameron tries to pull away from the bed.

"House, I,"

"Oh, don't look so modest. Not with your love juice baptizing half the examining rooms of the hospital."

"But I just,"

"Are you the only soul on earth to sleep through Sex Ed?"

"Of course not,"

"Then why do look like you just discovered the Titanic?"

"I was trying to make sure that there's one part of you that's not damaged," says Cameron, gaining some ground.

House hikes himself up in the bed so his chest and taut stomach are visible. The blanket slips a little, revealing his belly button and some dark pubic hairs.

"House –"

"What. So now you've seen enough? You're usually more thorough with your examinations. Is it damaged? Well, I'm biased, but by all means, see for yourself. Here, I'll give you a close-up of my,"

House stifles a smile as his brain accesses a lexicon of euphemisms for _hard on_.

_My Wang Dang Doodle, my Lightning Rod Johnson, my Satellite of love, my red hot chili pepper, my one-armed bandit, my throbbing lobster, my Mister Bo Jangles, my Norwegian Wood, my cock-a-doodle-do, my hunka hunka burnin' love._

How can he pick just one?

"My Tyrannosaurus Erectus."

"Let go of my shirt," Cameron says. "Okay. I looked. Don't tell me you're surprised."

She purposefully looks down at his penis once more, and then meets his eyes.

"It's bigger than a breadbox, but smaller than your ego," she says, and she smiles at him. Sotto voce, she adds, "It's not really bigger than a breadbox, but I thought that might get you in the mood."

House cocks his head at her, flicks his eyes across her breasts, and checks out her bare legs.

"In the mood for what?" he growls.

"Our game of 20 Questions. Come on. Get up. There's coffee in the kitchen."

At the door to his room she turns back.

"What's wrong, House. Don't you want to play?"

* * *

**A/N: In the reviews I've received for this story, some of you beg for smut – or at least physical contact ASAP, others have asked that I continue to develop the relationship between House and Cameron before they get physical. Here's your chance to weigh in. What do you think? **

**P.S. -- 20 Questions chapter should be up soon….**


	8. You Like Me

**Disclaimer: Nope.**

**A/N: I apologize for the two plus weeks between updates. Thanks to Tiflissa and Houseluvr for reading a draft of this chapter. If you want to see this fiction continue, reviews are the way to make it happen, so if you read it and think, "Me likee," please let me know! **

Cameron lingers outside House's bedroom.

Her cheeks are still flushed from embarrassment at having been caught checking out her boss's physique.

For having been caught watching House while he slept.

For the things he said to her when he awoke.

For the things she said back.

She has to reflect: When she showed up at House's office late last night, she never thought he'd be receptive to her presence. In fact, she hadn't expected him to be there, not really. And when it turned out that he was on the premises, she figured he'd send her packing. By packing, she'd pictured him batting her out of PPTH with his cane. Out of the ballpark, as House would say.

So far the weekend had been like an out of body experience -- except for the fact that her body was all too aware of what was going on.

"Are you getting up?" She asks. The gentle timbre of her naturally quiet voice barely penetrates the door of his room. House swings his legs over the side of the bed, and gets to his feet. He should be preparing a strategy for their game of 20 Questions, but his body – specifically his hard on – distracts him. At least it gets his mind off the pain. He clears his throat. "You're bossy."

"It's a simple question," she says.

House places his right hand on the dresser, and with his left, eases his boxers off, pulling the elastic up and over his erection. He tosses the garment on the floor, and then limps toward the shower.

"Be careful what you ask. You just spent the first of your 20 questions."

"Not fair," she says. "We still have to do rock, paper, scissors, to see who goes first."

"Can't hear you. Showering."

Cameron finds her black lacy bra, jeans, and white shirt folded by the sofa where she left them. She pulls House's tee over her head, folds it, and dresses in her own clothing.

House leans against the tile and makes short work of his erection. The showerhead is switched to its massage setting and water pummels his nakedness as he imagines her mouth on him, her tongue. As he comes, he whispers, "Allison. Oh, _fuck_, Allison."

_I can't get no satisfaction._

Desire is as powerful as pain; both drive him to distraction, just as Cameron has done all weekend. She is like Vicodin, he thinks: a little is never enough, he aims to take it whenever and wherever he wants it, and he won't give it up.

His only hope for the moment is to find something to occupy his mind. As he soaps up, he considers strategies for 20 Questions. She mentioned that she played the game growing up. Thus, she will expect that they play it the way it is traditionally played, using categories of animal, vegetable, or mineral – or people, places, or things.

To throw her off from the start, he'll insist that their version of the game adhere to what he likes to think of as _House rules_.

After all, he never plays by the rules. Not with Cuddy, not with Vogler, not with medical protocol. And he's not going to start now, not even for a woman he … likes.

_That's not how you get what you want. _

The question he has to ask himself is this: What does he want out of the game?

_I want to know what makes you tick._

"You … like me," he had said to her a few years ago, finding her alone in the lab. "Why?"

"That's a sad question," she had said. When she asked him why he wanted to know, it was the answer he'd allowed her.

_I want to know what makes you tick._

Who is Cameron?

At one point, he thought he knew.

Wasn't she the naïve ingénue, the caring doctor, the young widow who, despite having lost a husband to cancer, still managed to be little miss sunshine?

She has changed.

Her recent sex marathon with Chase and her newfound ability to stand up to his own authority had thrown House. He'd faked indifference, convincingly, he'd thought.

And then she showed up in his office last night when he was in so much pain.

She'd caught up to him when he was incapable of sending her away.

Was she on to him?

_I want you, I need you, I love you._

It's Elvis Presley, singing in his cerebral cortex. But House the Grinch can't allow a tender thought to stay pure: As a rebuke, he hums the Elton John tune, "The Bitch is Back," and smiles.

_Cameron. _

The need to know what makes her tick is like a mosquito bite. He has to scratch it. His restless intellect is on the prowl.

The only way for him to win at 20 Questions is to jimmy-rig the game. By the end of it, he hopes he'll have the means to break into her head.

As for her heart, he's going to work on that.

He sighs. The point of the game – and he is more than willing to lie about it – is to get into her pants, penetrate her psyche, and infiltrate her heart.

It's simple.

It's personal.

He needs to know this woman who is as difficult to solve as a chess game with Bobby Fischer.

It might cost him. He might have to reveal a little bit about himself in the process.

He might need Wilson.

* * *

As she waits for House to shower, Cameron sits at the kitchen table and flips through an issue of Us Weekly. Her face is free of makeup; her hair is pulled back in a ponytail. Anorexic starlets in slip dresses smile from the pages of a section called "The Skinny on Getting Thin."

At this, Cameron groans. At once she feels empathy for the actresses and anger at the magazine responsible for exploiting them.

And she's irked at House for buying the rag – worse, for subscribing to it, along with _The National Inquirer _and a few other paparazzi driven publications.

_How can House read this stuff? Moreover, why does he read it_? She wonders. There are no puzzles to be solved within the pages of celebrity rags, and nothing to engage an intellect of House's magnitude.

A moment later, she believes she may have found her answer. A dog-eared page reveals a bony Angelina Jolie, her eyes hidden behind dark glasses. Baby Shiloh is perched on her hip while she clutches her son Maddox's hand. "Mom's death has Angie looking like the refugees she works with as Good Will ambassador to the UN," the cut line editorializes.

Underneath the image, someone – House, surely – has scrawled, "_Damaged_."

Wilson would have a field day with this information, Cameron thinks. So it's not just Jolie's sex goddess status that attracts House, her unbelievable beauty, it's the fact that she's experienced pain.

It figures.

Once she looks at it from House's skewed perspective, it makes sense. After all, he was the one who told her that "Weird works for me." Is it really all that surprising that he'd idolize a woman who once wore her husband's blood in a vial around her neck? A woman who married a guy like Billy Bob Thornton? A woman who flies across the globe to hang out with skeletal orphans?

Cameron sighs. She can't believe she's spent 10 minutes of her life considering all of this. _It's 10 minutes I'll regret on my deathbed._

She looks up from the magazine at the sound of a door opening.

House emerges from his bedroom wearing a clean pair of jeans but nothing else. A towel is slung over his bare shoulder; his hair is still wet. He limps towards the coffee pot, favoring his good leg and swearing under his breath -- at the pain, she presumes.

"No shirt, no shoes, no service," Cameron quips. As soon as the words leave her lips, she knows she's in for it. She pushes back her chair and brings her cup over for a refill, careful not to make eye contact.

He joins her there, and leans his hip into the counter. The smell of toothpaste and soap – and something else that must be pure House, assaults her senses.

"What kind of _service_ did you have in mind?" he asks mildly, looking down at her. "Fill 'er up, big guy? Oh, but that would be me providing you with a service."

A few drops of water run from his damp hair down his bare chest and into the waistband of his pants. The jeans look like they were custom made for House's body. The denim hugs his thighs and his ass, she notices, as he turns to pour himself a cup of coffee. The muscles in his back flex.

"I was thinking about making you some eggs," Cameron lies. "And you have a dirty mind."

"This from the hussy who ogled my _big ol' jet airliner_ as if you wanted a free ride?"

"Give it a rest. I was curious."

Clutching their coffee cups, both head for the kitchen table, where House spies the Us Weekly. He pats the seat next to him and flips through the pages.

"Who wears it best? Reese or Scarlet? Personally, I think they'd both look better without the dress," House says, pointing out side by side photographs of the two actresses wearing identical Calvin Klein gowns.

His naked chest distracts Cameron, as does the scent of him. His bare foot brushes hers under the table by accident. She can feel the heat radiating from his body.

"Oh, here's a fun section," House continues. "It features the stars doing every day things like bagging their own groceries, getting their mail, or trying to eat a hotdog without spilling mustard. Here's Kirstie Alley bending over to pick up an earring. And I thought Cuddy had a gigantic ass."

"You need a new adjective – something besides gigantic or mammoth," Cameron says.

House smiles, and wiggles his eyebrows. "I'll get right on it. How about, 'It's bigger than a breadbox?'"

"It's a start," she says.

He stands. "Hand me my cane? I left it leaning against the counter."

Cameron gets up too quickly and stumbles against him. Placing his full weight on his left leg, House grasps her by the upper arms; steadies her. Her hands rest on his chest.

"You must be hungry. Breakfast at Tiffany's?" House suggests. He holds her shoulders lightly.

"I'm … famished," Cameron says. She's also had enough of half-naked House. "You need a shirt."

He lumbers painfully toward his cane. She stops him.

"I'm fine. I'll get it," she snaps. Song lyrics infiltrate her head: _Why can't I get just one kiss. _

Or just one fuck.

He makes a face at her behind her back.

Purposefully, she enters his bedroom. Opening the door to his closet, she looks through his shirts until she finds her favorite, the blue Oxford he wore on their date, the one that matches his eyes. Hanging it over her arm, she heads back into the kitchen.

"Put this on," she says, and when he hesitates, she grasps his arm, and pulls it through the sleeve. "Put on the shirt or I'm taking mine off."

"As a threat, that lacks the fear factor," House says, but he doesn't want her to know the effect she has on him, the ferocious thrumming of his heart, and the throbbing of his burgeoning hard on.

"You talk the talk, but you don't walk the walk," she says, smiling. "I can smell your fear."

He starts to button the shirt, but messes it up. His hands are shaking. Cameron steps closer and bats his hands away.

"Here. Let me."

She unbuttons the first three, where House has screwed up, and starts fresh with the one just below his collarbone.

"What about my t-shirt?" House asks. It sounds lame even to him.

"Looks better without."

Cameron works her way down, careful not to let her fingers linger on his chest. She can't stop herself from exhaling audibly, though. When she's finished, she looks up at him.

The expression in her eyes is familiar. House saw it on that night more than a year ago, the night he'd botched his speech for Vogler. It was the night Cameron came to his apartment to tell him that she quit.

But that wasn't all.

She came over to tell him why she liked him. The reason she cited was that he always did what was right.

As if -- And she'd left out the part about him being a sex god.

By leaving the department, she would be protecting herself, she'd said. From what, House had wondered? Her feelings? His?

And then she had extended her hand for him to take. But, House wouldn't shake it. He knew that if his large hand closed around her small one, he would be unable to stop himself from drawing her to him, pulling her body against his, and kissing her senseless.

Later, on their ill-fated date, he had tried to protect her from himself, since she clearly wasn't up to the task.

And now the reality of Cameron is right in front of him – the truth of her luminous presence.

How can he protect her any more than he already has?

House knows who he is, who he has become in the years since the infarction. He knows he is capable of inflicting more harm on this already damaged young widow.

But he is exhausted from the effort it takes to keep her at arms length.

He is weary from the pain it causes him to keep her at a safe distance.

For pity's sake, he thinks. _I drive a crotch rocket, I down Vicodin as if the drug is taffy. I take risks with patients' lives. _

Perhaps safety is overrated.

And so when Cameron steps back to admire her handiwork, his blue shirt, perfectly in place, when she looks past the top button and her eyes reach his face, words come up from somewhere deep inside him.

"You … still … like me."

She whispers her response. "Yes."

"Give me your hand," he says, his voice an octave lower than normal, and fiery around the edges.

Her eyes widen, but she extends it. House covers it with his own hand, and pulls her up tight against his chest. Without high heels on, he towers over her. He wants to grind his erection against her, to force her lips apart with his tongue, but he holds himself back.

"I'm not going to crush you," he says.

He's not sure if he says it out loud, but he feels her relax against him, and when he looks down at her, her face is tilted up. The expression in her eyes reminds him of the way it feels to come inside a woman he loves, there's a release within them, freedom and triumph.

"Closer," he orders her.

She obliges, standing on her tiptoes, as he lowers his head and touches his mouth against hers, light as meringue.

Just once.

The Kama Sutra always cautions that less is more, especially at first.

His face stays so close to hers she can feel his warm, clean breath. Her belly burns.

"More," she whispers.

When he waits, she takes his face in her hands, drags his mouth down to hers, tilts his head this way and that, attempting to taste all of him.

House's large hands circle her tiny waist, his thumbs touching her hipbones. He pulls her hard against his pelvis so she feels the shape of his prick. Her nipples are hardened peaks of sensation as they rub against his shirt.

His hand moves to grip the back of her head, and his tongue traces her lower lip. He presses his mouth to hers lightly again, holds his mouth against hers for a moment, and then disentangles himself from the embrace.

The way he looks is the way she has always wanted to see him, as if

once he was lost

but now he is found.

She watches as microexpressions move across his face:

Desire,

pain,

desire,

regret,

desire,

hope,

desire,

need,

desire.

As they move apart, her hand trails down his chest.

"Well, that's a start," she whispers, once she gets her breath.

House stands, his arms dropped to his sides. "What happens next?"

"We eat breakfast. We play 20 Questions. You answer your phone. It's called life."

House moves toward the telephone, hesitates.

"Want to bet it's Wilson?"

She smiles at him. "Who else?"

He picks up.

"Can't talk. Too busy fending off Cameron's advances." House listens for a second. "Of course they're sexual. It's not _football_. Does that answer your question? Oh, _God, _Cameron Gotta go."

The half smile tilts his mouth the way she loves it as he slams down the receiver.

"Are you still hungry?" he asks her.

After that kiss, Cameron isn't sure which of her organs needs fuel the most: her stomach, or her clit. She wants the works.

"Hungrier," she says.

"Mmm. I like the sound of that."

The two of them head out the door, toward Tiffany's, a hot breakfast, and a game in which not even House knows all the answers.


	9. Asked and Answered

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or concept of the Fox show "House." No, not me. **

**A/N: I can't say enough good things about ColorofAngels, who has agreed to beta my stuff for me. She is awesome. Her H/C story, "I Do, I Don't" is brilliant, but you should also check out her Wilson piece, "Mr. Well-Adjusted." **

**If you all can hang in there for a few more days, my Twenty Questions chapter should be ready to read. Following that, you can expect some serious action. You know what I mean.**

**Finally, H/C fans, check out my new story, "Crazy Like a Fox." It's totally different than anything I've done, and it's funny.**

**One more thing: My readers are awesome about commenting. Please consider reviewing. It is so appreciated. Thanks to all who take the time to do so. **

* * *

"What happens next?_" _House asks, trying to catch his breath after their kiss

The coffee pot gurgles.

Light from the window cuts across her face.

The refrigerator hums.

Steve McQueen scuttles along on his wheel.

In an attempt to regain his reason, he pulls away from the siren song that is Cameron's body, as if doing so could distance him from all that she has been to him, all that she could be.

_What happens next?_

Is it a question for Cameron, or for him? He's not sure, really, if it's even a query. Perhaps he should have saved it as a gift for Jimmy. Problem solving makes Wilson giddy, especially when it comes to his private life.

_What happens next?_

Why even ask? It's up to him. And he knows what to do, in spite of Wilson's coaching. The answer may be buried in his psyche, in a grave with Stacy's remains, but it's retrievable. Amid the picked over bones of what used to be – rubble that once was the two of them – lies a key to what might be if he could only let that relationship rest in peace, in the past.

_Ask her out on a date. Be normal, for once_. It's his inner Wilson weighing in. His friend's voice is stuck in his head like the George Martin piano solo from the Beatles' "Lovely Rita." He can't shake it.

_She likes lame. She likes damaged. She likes you_. Wilson's voice bounces around in his consciousness like Mike Garson's piano noodling from Bowie's song "Aladdin Sane."

Lines from a Kinks song materialize in his head. They're just as bad as Wilson:

**You're a misfit  
Afraid of yourself so you run away and hide  
You've been a misfit all your life  
Why don't you join the crowd and come inside.**

Shut up, Ray Davies, he thinks.

_You're forever on the outside looking in. You're always alone, segregated by your own design, your face pressed up against the glass. You lurk outside restaurants while your staff eats and talks, never able to bring yourself to go inside. You won't meet your patients, but you'll spy on them._

Wilson again. They've been friends a long time. He's embedded in House's mind like a microchip.

Shut up, Wilson.

_Be normal_?

Not possible.

This is what he should do – stay true to his twisted persona. It's what she wants; it's who he is.

He should bake Foreman some pot brownies because the man needs to loosen up.

He should drug Chase and hire a permanent makeup artist to give the lad's face the convenience of lip color, eyebrows and eyeliner that won't rub off, smudge or smear. The youngster is obviously a Goth (or a girl) in disguise.

He should break into Cuddy's house and leave her a blowup, anatomically correct mannequin. Her happiness is always uppermost in his mind, after all, just like his undying passion for clinic duty.

Ha. As if.

As for Cameron? He should ask her out on a date, but on his terms. Take her to see General Hospital On Ice in New York. Read to her from The National Inquirer. Challenge her to a pinball tournament. Hire her as his love slave. On second thought, no, House reasons, that's what hookers are for.

Have sex.

As she looks up at him, hair loose around her face, color staining her cheeks, her neck, her chest, his feelings are conflicted. He'd like to lift her shirt over her head with the end of his cane, to pin her against the wall, place the end of the cane between her legs, and gently apply pressure, to kiss her for hours, and then take her to bed.

He can see that she's overcome with … wanting, needing, loving … _him_.

What could he possibly give her?

Pain? Surely.

Pleasure? Perhaps.

Sometimes there's little difference between the two.

Despite the leg, the limp, House is an imaginative, artful lover. He knows he can please a woman in bed … or against a wall … or up on a pool table. He takes pride in the fact that even hookers leave happy.

To remedy his geekiness in high school, college, and medical school, he studied women – between the sheets, and between the covers of books like The Joy of Sex, and The Complete Kama Sutra. 

He'd said it with a smile, but he wasn't joking when he reminded Stacy of the way she screamed whenever she straddled "Mount Gregory."

And with Cameron, well, he reads between her lines. There are things he already knows about her body, about her heart, things he has intuited from her past, from the way she posts against him when she's on the back of his bike, from the way she crosses her legs, from the way her pupils dilate when their fingers or their eyes touch.

He knows that with one big toe he can have her writhing on a bed, head arched back, hair a mahogany waterfall against a pillow.

He knows just how to touch her secret skin with his fingertips and tongue, how to run the back of his hand along her inner thighs, trace from her clavicle to her clit with a feather, circle her abdomen with his palm, barely touching the skin, blow gently into her belly button until she begs him…

He knows to take her nipples between his lips, flick each bud with the tip of his tongue. He knows when to take it slow, and when to throttle up. He knows when to tease her g-spot with his cock, and when to ante up and fill her fast, hard, hot. He knows when to be still, intent, and when to talk to her in short, urgent phrases.

This he knows.

He takes another step backward and lowers his eyes, looks down at his feet, and once again relives their ill-fated date. Was he wrong or right when he told Cameron that what she felt for him had nothing to do with love?

"What I am is what you need," he'd told her. "I'm damaged."

"Tell me how you feel … about me," she'd said.

What he felt then, he feels now.

Fear.

Like pain and desire, it's all encompassing.

The morning after the date, he and the team had wrapped a case. They had been treating a young man who took – and House appreciated the irony – great pleasure in pain. The patient, who had suffered a series of strokes, came equipped with a dominatrix. He was a bad, bad boy and deserved a spanking, House had thought at the time. Fulminating osteomylitis was the final diagnosis, treatable by removing part of his jaw. Asphyxiation at the hands of a dominatrix would kill him eventually. House warned him that if the strangulation continued, he would die. Seemed like a no-brainer, but some people forget to read the manual to life.

The dominatrix, Annette – and it said something about House that he could recall her name, but not the name of his patient – had said this about the sexual domination, although House hadn't asked:

"_It's about being open and completely vulnerable to another person. If you can learn to be that deeply trusting, it changes you."_

She could have been talking to him about Cameron.

_It changes you. _

That's what scares him. For Stacy, he had changed. He had opened up.

He'd ended up alone.

* * *

"What happens next?"

_If only I knew_, she thinks, her body still buzzing from its close proximity to his. (The way her heart is pounding, she knows her pulse is visible in her carotid artery.)

For a moment, she is silent.

A dog barks.

The kitchen clock ticks.

When she looks up at House, his eyes smolder, and she knows that if she reaches out and puts a hand on his chest, his heart will pulsate against her palm. If she places her hand lower, it will be evident at what cost he has stepped away from her.

_What happens next?_

She exhales, and comes up with a pithy answer:

"_We eat breakfast. We play 20 Questions. You answer your phone. It's called life."_

Part of her is angry with him for asking the question. _What do you mean, what happens next? What happens next is this: you put the palm of your hand between my legs. With the nub of your thumb, you tease my clit; flirt with it until I beg…_

_And then…._

And then there's a part of her that's grateful to House for ending the kiss. For not trying to get her into bed, even when it is clear she would have climbed in and onto his rock hard cock if given any encouragement. If he had treated her like a desirable woman, and not a Pollyanna, gawking at his erection like a schoolgirl, she would have _been there, done that._

It is just a matter of time before one of them gives in. Once it happens, she fears it may never happen again.

"Jump him," Chase had advised her, on the day of her date with House. Tempting though it was, Cameron had decided that even if the date went well, she wouldn't go all the way to third base with her boss until they'd at least been on a few more dates. She liked House, and she had feelings for him. She wanted things to develop on a date-by-date basis.

So she didn't jump him.

It might have been prudence, it might have been self-protection, it might have had something to do with what House had said to her: _"What I am is what you need: I'm damaged."_

Often she ponders things she could have said to House, in response to his little soliloquy.

_You think you're damaged? Who isn't?_ She thinks now, inches outside of the cocoon of his arms, the hardness of his body.

_Everybody hurts sometimes_.


	10. Twenty Questions

**Disclaimer: I own a house; I own "House" on dvd; I like the movie "My Life as a House." As for the Fox show and its characters, they belong to a power greater than me: David Shore.**

**A/N: Thanks to ColorOfAngels for beta brilliance. Anything awkward that remains is my own fault. **

**This chapter is dedicated to Angela Burrows for being an amazing reader and for her praise and encouragement. Thanks, Angela.  
**

**This is rated T, but contains frank language and adult situations.**

** If you think, "Me likee," if you think, "I want more," please review to tell me so. It's that little blue button at the bottom of the page.**

* * *

A kiss is a kiss is a kiss.

That's all it is, she thinks:

A taste of what's to come, an appetizer tray where each morsel teases the tongue like a courtesan, heightens sensation, and whips up a craving for more of the same.

_And then some:_

Caviar on a cracker, tiny orange eggs exploding in the mouth, a single oyster rich with the tang of an ocean, or one lick of a summer-sweet strawberry.

A kiss is an experiment, a flirtation with flavor.

It's a prelude to hunger, and kissing House has left Cameron ravenous. She tastes his mouth in her own, still feels the warmth of his hands on her body.

_J'Aurais Toujours Faim De Toi: I'm so hungry for you. _

The pizza they shared at Deuce's the night before is a distant memory.

But it's not a lack of food that makes her stomach ache.

"You still hungry?" House slams the phone into its cradle, ending Wilson's questions with an exclamation point, and turns to Cameron.

"Hungrier." She absently rubs her lower abdomen, causing a pang in his groin, a sensation close to pain.

Up and down, his eyes travel over her body, settling on the sensitive tips of her breasts. "I like the sound of that," he says, trying to keep his voice neutral.

A cold shower is nowhere in her immediate future, so Cameron talks House into walking to Tiffany's. A breath of fresh air might clear her head for the game of 20 Questions.

She uses her mom's favorite method of persuasion:

"If you _walk_ over, I'll buy you breakfast."

Food incentives always worked with her dad.

House squints at her skeptically. "Sounds like exercise," he says, as if the word were a pickle. "Got a bum leg."

"Bummer. No reason to let the rest of you atrophy. We're walking," she insists, pointing out the window at the beautiful day.

The paper-bark maple she gave House that first Christmas grows in the patch of lawn where his landlord let her plant it. She had done it on the sly as a joke after a conversation they'd had about God. "Are you comparing me to God?" he had asked. "I mean, that's great, but just so you know, I've never made a tree."

No, but you save people, she'd thought at the time. You give life to the dying, and hope to the hopeless.

On the card she'd sent him, she'd wrote, "So you've never made a tree, but you've never killed one either. Don't start now, or I'll know you're just a minor deity."

As they step out into the sunlight, she notices the buds of its leaves unfurling, and the coffee grounds scattered on the earth underneath it, fertilizing it. If House tended his cactus, perhaps he also cared for his tree, she speculated. Or maybe it was just the landlord beautifying his property.

The pair cut through Marquand Park on their way to the café. Cameron had always loved the ambiance of the park, with its specimen trees and flowering bushes, and today was no different, but she winced when she spotted the sign for Lover's Lane – the road the park bordered. Maybe House wouldn't notice, she hoped in vain.

House never missed anything, except his leg the way it used to be.

"If we took the car, we could have parked and groped," he thrust his cane at the sign.

"In your day I think they called it 'petting,'" Cameron joked.

"Depends on which 'day' you're talking about. In my day they also called it free love." House flashed her a peace sign, and indicated a secluded patch of park with his cane. "Hipsters would get naked, take psychedelics, and make love under the sky to a Joe Cocker soundtrack."

Cameron smiles at the picture his words evoked. "No heavy metal ballads? No getting down to K.C. and the Sunshine band?"

"If ya can't do a little dance, ya can't make a little love. The 70s sucked."

"Hey, don't complain. Try making out to Nirvana. It's jarring. Anyway, you can dance." For this observation, House gripped Cameron's upper arm as he turned her to look at him.

"Only one way to get me to dance." House surveyed the park, and glanced down at his sneakers.

"Is it a state secret?" she jokes. He nodded, looking back up at her, and placing his index finger against her lips.

"Buddy Guy. 'Feels Like Rain.' It's in a CIA file along with … never mind." He pushes her gently on ahead of him as he leans down to massage his leg.

She stops to admire a lilac bush, a ruse while she waits for him to catch up.

Its flowers thrive.

Its odor cloys.

Green sprouts push through the earth, soon to be hyacinths, daffodils, and tulips.

House looks on while Cameron pauses near a stand of beech trees to watch an old man with a cane walking his golden retriever.

"Can I pet your dog?" she asks him courteously.

The octogenarian nods his consent while he and House eye each other's canes. Cameron holds her hand out for the dog to sniff, but the dog already approves of her, and extends a paw.

She knelt down and dug her hands into the dog's fur, accepting its enthusiastic kisses, while House shook his head, amused.

"She likes you," the old man says to Cameron.

"Of course she does," House mutters under his breath.

As they continue toward Tiffany's, he rolls his eyes and says, "Like I couldn't see _that_ coming a block away."

Cameron just grins.

Tiffany's has been her sanctuary since she moved to Princeton, her retreat.

If she had to pick one word to describe the place, she'd call it earthy. The décor is in soothing shades of terracotta and turquoise, accented with bright red. Karl, a local potter with a gift for glazes, makes all the bowls, plates, and mugs. His clay urns filled with aloe plants, cacti, jade, and Norfolk Island pine trees are artfully placed within the establishment. On the tables are his curvy vases filled with pussy willows and dried lavender.

It seems like more of a home to her at times than her own apartment, which strikes her as sterile.

She spends more time at the hospital than at her residence.

When she isn't at either place, she's often at Tiffany's, nursing a coffee, or writing in her old, leather bound journal, a Christmas gift from House.

The notebook has this inscription:

_Cameron,_

_Here's how to keep your feelings to yourself. (Better post security around this baby)._

– _House_

Tiffany's coffee is like an illicit love affair – irresistible, heady. (If John were still alive, he would write a poem about it, she thinks.)

The food is made with fresh ingredients from the farmer's market.

Just walking in the door is an assault on the olfactory senses, and Cameron breathes in the aromas as she and House push open the door to the coffee house: baked goods, java (of course), bacon, and fried potatoes.

Cameron immediately spots Tiffany chatting with the potter, Karl, at a corner table and heads over to say hi, while House scours the place for a cozy booth. That's when he sees Wilson seated at a choice table, nursing a crème caramel latte with whipped cream and unconsciously swaying to music from his iPod. The oncologist is dressed in full doctor's regalia: slacks, a starched white shirt, red tie, Italian shoes, and white lab coat.

As stealthy as a cripple with a cane can be, House sneaks up behind his friend and rips the iPod phones out of his ears. The tinny whine of Michael Jackson, "She's Out of My Life," leaks out of the earpiece like puss from a secret sore.

"That song was pre-Lisa Marie," House muses, sinking into the opposite seat and gripping his leg with a grimace. "You're feeling guilty about an ex. The only question is which one. Is it Julie? Bonnie?" Glancing at Wilson's coffee confection, he says, "Kind of girly, don't you think?"

"We had plans," Wilson seethes, brushing a swath of brown hair back from his forehead. "What took you so long? I have to get back and cover the clinic or Cuddy will have my ass."

"Don't think that's the end of you she's interested in," House remarked. Reaching in his rucksack for the orange vial of Vicodin, he scoops and swallows.

"You said you'd be here at 2:30." Wilson reminded the other doctor, licking whipped cream from the corners of his mouth.

House sighed. "Cameron had to stop and smell the flowers, pet some dogs. You know how she is."

"The way she's been acting lately," Wilson says, "I thought she'd crossed over to the dark side."

"Nope. Still caring. Just a little more Courtney Love than she lets on. I think she secretly listens to Hole." House practically gives himself whiplash as he turns to keep tabs on his immunologist.

Wilson watched House watch Cameron.

Without makeup, her hair loose around her face, Dr. Cameron looks like a good sport, a fun date. There is something of the serious but hopeful young woman she appeared to be three years ago when her fellowship began. She smiles and gestures with her hands as she talks to her friends, sincerity flowing from every move.

"What exactly are you…doing with Cameron?" _This time,_ Wilson adds internally.

"We're playing games," House announced, his voice leaving little room for critique. "Gambling. That's what weekends in fun land are all about."

Wilson ignored the vocal cues. "_You're_ playing games. Cameron is living her life. I'll bet you fifty bucks this isn't a game to her."

"Just hand over the contraband," House ordered, holding out his hand and gesturing impatiently.

Wilson reaches into the pocket of his lab coat and palms House the small, purple contraption, just a tad bigger than a yo-yo, yet smaller than a Game Boy.

"Ah. 20 Q. What will they think of next?" House gazes fondly at the electronic device. "Did you know that this was invented in 1988 as an experiment in Artificial Intelligence? Little bugger has an eight-bit chip with a neural net. Cool."

"Geek."

"You're one to talk. Who else do you have on your pod? Barbra? The divine Ms. M?"

Wilson sidesteps House's jab like a matador and jerks his head in Cameron's direction. "Better get your hand held out of sight. The sound is turned off, so if you hold it under the table, you can see the questions it's asking. But the words come out slow, like you're reading a teleprompter," Wilson says, shaking his head in dismay at his own complicity. "You know, this won't help you win."

"That depends on what you mean by winning," House says, presenting Wilson with a quarter tilt of the mouth. "Winning isn't everything, you know. It's how you play the game that counts."

"Coming from you, coach, that's a bunch of hooey." Sarcasm oozed from Wilson's voice.

House holds his palms out toward Wilson. "Okay. If Cameron wins, I win. If she wins, she'll be happy," he concludes, his voice cracking involuntarily on the last word.

"And you care because?"

A pregnant pause ensues.

"That's between Scooter Libby, and me," House finally says, with a sideways glance. "Shh."

"But you admit you … care about her happiness?" Wilson pressed, sounding dubious.

House looked around for a waitress, desperate for anything that would deter Wilson from this line of questioning. Naturally, the young woman with the server's pad has joined Cameron and her two friends.

"I bought her a corsage," he reminded his friend with mild irritation. "Need I say more?"

"You bought her a corsage, and then you abandoned ship instead of … stealing home." Wilson retorted as he checked his wristwatch and sighed.

"For a guy who can quote Dante, you could use a tutorial on metaphors. Get to the point." House tapped his fingers on the tabletop.

"The point is, I thought you were bored. With me, with her, with Foreman, Chase and Cuddy." Wilson passes a hand across his eyes, and takes another sip of his latte. "And I suppose we are…boring. It's not like we … fake cancer or stick a catheter where the sun don't shine."

"Service here sucks. You _are_ boring." He rubbernecks to look at Cameron again and notices that somehow she has procured a cup of coffee. "But she…moves in mysterious ways, Jimmy. She's not the open and shut, cut and dried case I thought she was."

House strokes his unshaven chin and his eyes leave Wilson's as he looks down at his hands.

"That was a tell," Wilson exclaimed pointing at his friend, his brows shooting up, and a wide grin stretching across his narrow face.

"And you're just an excitable boy. What tell?"

"You looked down. That means…"

"It means I have a hangnail," House interjects, holding up his hand, his tone dry as Dutch Rusk.

Wilson's enthusiasm shows no sign of waning. Like a hound dog that has caught a scent, he continues to prod his friend. "You were with her last night. You were with her this afternoon when I called. You're up to something."

"Something might be up," House concedes, lifting his eyes to meet Wilson's.

"What _are_ you getting out of this, House?" Wilson asks with honest curiosity.

House lets out an exasperated breath. "So far? A gargantuan boner, a real Battlestar Galactica. What is this? Twenty questions? I'm supposed to be playing that with Cameron right now. You're man-pretty, but you're not Cameron-pretty."

"You do know she's with Chase." Wilson pointed out while he drained the last of his java, took out a tin of curiously strong peppermints and popped one.

"She was never _with _Chase. She was just _doing_ Chase," House clarifies.

"Same difference."

"Having random sex with a colleague is not having a relationship. Ergo, she wasn't with Chase. Those two kids were doing the nasty – and since the act involved Chase, I'm sure it was not only nasty, but repulsive," House says with a shudder. "The fact you can't tell the difference is the reason failed marriages trail behind you like crumbs. Julie has an affair, so you give up. Was her heart even in it? Now you'll never know."

"Yet we were talking about Cameron, not my ex-wives," Wilson stated the obvious, wondering why he bothered. "How do you win if she wins?"

"You win, too," House added temptingly. "You'll have to trust me."

Wilson cleared his throat. "And, um, I don't."

"Not my problem."

"And you didn't answer my question."

Every now and then, House liked to throw Wilson a bone. It served to occupy him for a while. Sometimes he'd even go away and chew on it.

"I want her to …" House's voice trailed off, unsure of how much he wanted to give away.

Wilson nearly knocked his chair over as he stood. "You…want her!"

With a scowl, House watches as Wilson points at him.

"Going to do a victory dance?" he asked sardonically.

"You like her! Take care, my friend. You have an addictive personality and you're gonna get hooked. Remember, a drug is a drug is a drug."

"And yet you keep prescribing them for me."

At that, Wilson closed his mouth.

One more bone, House decides.

"After the Ketamine worked, and my leg stopped hurting, I felt…hope. Pretty girls looked at me. I could do the things that normal people do. Run, dance, try sex positions that eluded me after the infarction." House flashed Wilson a look. "I could have kicked your ass, if I'd wanted to."

At this, Wilson smiles.

"But, here I am."

House lifts his bad leg off the floor an inch. "With this."

He pulls out the vial of Vicodin. "And these."

He points across the table to Wilson. "And you."

He jerks a thumb at Cameron. "And her. Yeah, I want her," House growls. "She takes me as I am. She doesn't try to change me. What I am is what she wants. I'm okay with that."

Wilson nods. "Okay, House. Just know that … I'm around if you need to talk."

House taps his watch. "If you don't get back to the clinic, Cuddy will know what she's missing," he says, and winks. "Get the waitress for me on your way out."

"Call me later."

"I'm out of minutes," House says to Wilson's back.

On his way out, Wilson stopped to say hi to Cameron. Her face lit up with a kind smile when she saw who it was.

"Wilson! Filling in at the clinic?" She asked, motioning to his garb.

"What was your first clue?" Wilson smiles back, before taking her by the arm and leading her towards the front of the café.

"What are you doing with House?" He asked, once they were out of earshot of Tiffany, with her inky black bowl cut and Karl with his Scandinavian cheekbones and flaxen hair. Cameron detects a note of envy coloring his voice, and her heart contracts.

"We were just about to play 20 Questions. Why, is he needed at the clinic?" she asks, concerned.

"Think about it. House. 20 Questions. That doesn't seem … dangerous to you?"

Cameron laughs. "Oh, Wilson. Dangerous for House? Dangerous for me? We're just … being."

"You're not going to … love him and leave him," he questions, a note of anxiety hovering.

"I'm not with him, and as for love, well, that's between us," her gentle voice reassures him. "House will be fine. As for me, I'm not afraid of House."

It's Wilson's turn to smile at her. "He's going to use all his poker tricks to extract personal information from you."

"I'm not afraid of the truth," Cameron states.

"The truth isn't in him," Wilson declares, pushing hair back out of his handsome face, then throwing up his hands in defeat. "What do women see in him, anyway? He's edgy, egotistical, and misanthropic. Oh, and let's not forget miserable. What does he have that you want?"

Wilson turns toward the door, not expecting an answer.

"He has me," she says, surprising him. "If he wants me, he has me. That's all I've ever wanted to give him."

* * *

House orders a ham and cheddar omelet and coffee, black.

"No green peppers," he says, shuddering. Pausing as the server jots the information on her pad, he adds, "And hold the onions."

His fingers move unconsciously to his lips as he remembers the kiss. Oh, just hold the whole order and give me Cameron on the table.

His mind whirs.

His body is restless.

His appetite isn't focused on food.

His hunger resides elsewhere.

"A cherry almond scone and a poached egg for me, please," Cameron requests, when it's her turn to order. "And a venti cup of dark roast with sweet 'n' low."

Once they've ordered and the waitress leaves, the two doctors look at one another, sizing each other up after the events of the weekend.

Anyone passing by the window who bothered to glance inside would see a middle-aged man with a five o' clock shadow and inscrutable eyes seated across from a lovely young brunette with her chin cupped in her hand and the beginning of a smile hovering on her lips.

A married man with his young mistress, perhaps? Or a graduate student meeting with her thesis advisor?

An astute observer would notice the young woman lean forward and fuss with the buttons on the older man's shirt. That changes everything. It is an intimate gesture. Could they be husband and wife?

If the observer was a male, he'd wonder what the scruffy oldster had going on that landed him such a major babe.

If the onlooker were female, she'd get it right away: A man with eyes like that hardly needs a dick.

House folds his arms across his chest and considers Cameron. "You're pretty. Beautiful, even," he says.

"Thank you," she replies, rewarding him with the same smile she offered when he complimented her earrings on their date.

"It's a fact, not a compliment. But, you're welcome."

She leans in toward his face, her elbows on the table. "I'm guessing you're not really interested in small talk. Shall we play?"

He narrows his eyes a fraction. "My game, my rules."

"It takes two to play," Cameron contradicts. "I get a say in how we structure this game. We're equals."

"This isn't Uncle Tom's Cabin. I'm your boss, not your PC playmate," House counter-contradicts. "Since when has our relationship been a partnership?"

"Since when have we had a relationship?" Cameron returns, having the good sense not to look triumphant when House opens his mouth, and closes it.

"Nice curve ball," he says, finally.

"Sports metaphors. Think you know how I feel about 'em," she retorts. "Look, House. Rules are overrated. Let's just pick something and run with it; I'll go first, and you guess. If you get it in twenty questions or less, you win. If you don't, I win, and that means Wilson gets to analyze you with your mouth duct taped shut while I watch."

House considers her proposal, and pitches one back at her, one he knows she can't honor. No one can. "Okay. Fair enough. But, if I win, I get to ask you twenty questions and you have to answer truthfully."

That's the catch.

"No point in telling the truth. You wouldn't believe me. Everybody lies, remember?" Cameron pins him with her eyes.

"Including me when I said that, remember?" House looks away. "Speaking of candor and coming clean, what did Wilson want with you?" He asks it a little too casually.

Cameron rolled her eyes. "Wilson needs a life more than either of us. He said 'The truth isn't in him,' referring, of course to you. Was that a reference to the anti-Christ?"

"You mean me? Don't think you can be both God and the anti-Christ at the same time, although they say that God is omniscient, immanent and infinite. He plays by His own rules."

"Like you." Cameron rips open another pink packet of faux sugar and dumps it into her coffee mug. The mug has a silver and cobalt glaze. "God is a myth."

"And someday I'll be history," House replies dismissively, clearly done with this line of conversation. "Let's play this game. Got something in mind? Person, place, or thing? Animal, vegetable, or mineral? Which is it?"

Clasping her hands together, and tilting her head flirtatiously, she says, "It's a thing."

"Is it hard?" He asks, glancing surreptitiously at his hand held game.

The word alone stirs his imagination. It was hard, and it would be again, House thinks. He could be referring to his groin or his heart.

"Yes." Cameron's voice is a husky half-whisper.

"Is it slippery when wet?" Is this really a legitimate example of Artificial Intelligence, he wonders, disdainfully.

"Yes."

The waitress arrives. She sets a plate with the scone, the poached egg, and a slice of muskmelon in front of Cameron, and an omelet with sliced apples before House.

Simultaneously, Cameron says "thanks," and House says, "finally."

They look at each other and smile.

"Is it straight?" he asks, eyeing the electronic device.

He looks up to see if he can read her face, and notices her eyes on him.

It's like reading a book of erotica: words come unbidden to his mind.

Hold.

Please.

Gasp.

Moan.

Suck.

Arouse.

Provoke.

Lick.

Undo.

Obey.

Release.

Excite.

Stroke.

Spread.

Push.

Come.

"Sometimes," Cameron says, biting her lip at the look ignited in House's too blue eyes.

"What?" he tries to cover his trip down into Penthouse Forum land. "Thinking about a case. Missed that one."

"You asked if the thing is straight," Cameron humored him. "I said sometimes. You sure you're up for this?" She splays the scone apart with her bread knife and spreads butter over each half.

Up for this? House rubs his eyes and lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"Never better. Does it come in different colors?"

"I'd say so." She slings another smile directly at him. It's disarming.

"Can you … play with it?" No wonder politicians are so stiff. Teleprompters suck, House decides. Maybe he should abandon the little purple wizard.

"After a fashion." Cameron takes a bite of her scone. "This is great. Want to try it?"

House eyes the food skeptically.

"No pickles. I promise," she says, tearing off a quarter of the scone and handing it to him.

"Is it worth a lot of money?" he asks, leaning forward and wiping a smear of butter off her bottom lip with his thumb.

She wants his fingers in her mouth. "Depends." She wants to kiss his mouth, lean against him, and rest her head on his chest.

"Does it bring joy to people?"

Oh, God, yes.

"Do you actually have a strategy? Because this seems really random," Cameron comments.

"Do you care?" He asks, curious.

"No, not really. I just thought you'd use your unmatched deductive reasoning skills. Your questions are kind of lame."

"Focus, Cameron," he dismisses her. "So. Does it bring joy to people?"

"Yes. Yes it does."

Peter Gabriel plays in the background.

House listens.

_**I'm waiting for ignition; I'm looking for a spark  
Any chance collision and I light up in the dark  
There you stand before me, all that fur and all that hair  
Oh, do I dare ... I have the touch.**_

He can tell by the way Cameron tilts her head, and flicks her tongue across her lips, that she's in tune with it. The raw sexuality of the song, the suggestiveness of the lyrics, the primal beat of the music, and the sight of lacy black bra underneath her diaphanous shirt give House pause.

_**I'm only, only wanting contact  
With you…**_

"Do you like Gabriel?" he asks.

"It's on my iPod, along with 'Sledgehammer.' Had a crush on him when I was 17."

House would have thought she'd like the sentimental stuff like "In Your Eyes."

"I guess he's a step up from Ric Ocasek or Lyle Lovett," he says.

"Hey. Looks aren't everything," she protests. "Those guys are great."

"Yeah, yeah. Can it fit in an envelope?"

She hesitates. "Sometimes."

"Is it useful?"

"Absolutely." Cameron daubs the corners of her mouth with a napkin.

"Is it manmade?"

20 Q is an idiot, House decides. He's already on question 10 and it hasn't even guessed yet. Not that he needs to win to get what he wants. Cameron might be more receptive to him if she wins.

"No." Cameron eyes his apple slices. "You going to eat those?"

"Do I look like an apple a day kind of guy to you? Of course not. Want 'em?"

"Yup. Gimmee."

"You're not…turning into me, are you?"

Cameron laughs and accepts the Ida Red from House's plate. "You do rub off on people."

"That's what Foreman thinks. Can you own one?"

"Yes."

"Is it heavier than The Concept of Dread?" That one he made up on his own. He drew the line at asking if the thing was heavier than a pound of butter.

"Is that a joke?"

"Not when I read it. My … dad kept a copy of it in the basement when we lived in Michigan, right next to the TV set. When it was humid, I used it to kill millipedes."

"That's very … symbolic. But somehow I see you as reading MAD magazine, not Kierkegaard." Cameron laughs, and crosses her legs, her pointy high-heeled shoe accidentally brushing House's calf in the process.

He thinks of her legs while he's taking in her smile – thinks of what lies between them – and he feels the responsibility of holding a heart like hers in his hands.

"I'm an anomaly," he says. "Is it something you bring along?"

"That depends on you," she replies, lips curving slightly.

"Okay…I'm thinking that it's a …"

"Are you sure you want to guess already?" Cameron makes a worried face.

"Wouldn't have said it if I didn't. You nervous?"

Her face relaxes. "Nope. Because I just won." She settles back in her seat and smirks at him.

"Remedial math got past you, and yet you're a doctor. How did that happen?"

"You're tallying it up wrong. Take the specific questions you asked me to figure out what my 'thing' was, and add the conversational questions I got you to ask me and the total is 23. I won."

"You cheated."

"Umm, nope. Rules weren't stipulated. You lose. But I'll buy breakfast," she said, smiling sweetly. "And then I'll walk you home. And then, who knows? Are you still hungry?"

His appetite knows no bounds.

_**I'm only wanting contact with you**... _

"You can ask me twenty questions, and maybe I'll even tell you something true," Cameron holds out a hand to help him up.

House looks at her askance.

"Try me," she says.

He'll try her.

He knows he will.

* * *

**A/N: Do you want ... more? What _do _you want? If it's more you're looking for, you're going to have to tell me...**


	11. Intimate Apparel

Gunning the throttle like a madman, House pulled into the hospital parking lot with pizzazz, Cameron's arms tight around his waist, her warm body pressed against back. Her Camry was parked where she'd left it the previous night.

_She's not even gone yet and he already wants to see her again. House has asked her 20 Questions, but the question that occupies his restless mind is this:_

_After I drop her off, how do I get her to come back?_

With a flick of his wrist, House switched off his donor cycle, pulled the helmet off of his head, and swiveled in the saddle to help Cameron with hers.

"You lucked out," House remarked, indicating the Toyota, which looked unscathed from its vigil in PPTH's lot. "Looks like Foreman took the night off from looting and thievery."

Cameron climbed from the bike with a shake of her head. If there were a shot to be taken at his subordinates' expense, House would fire away.

"It might have something to do with the fact that Foreman pulled an all-nighter at the clinic," Cameron admitted in a confession that raised her boss's eyebrows skyward. "I asked him to fill in for me."

"I didn't tell you to cover the clinic last night," House said, tossing his helmet into the air and catching it.

"No. Cuddy did." She faced him, legs slightly spread, arms folded against her chest.

House swung his leg over the bike and stood leaning against it. He scanned the cluster of buildings that comprised PPTH while his thoughts bounced around the maze of his mind.

"You showed up in my office last night, but it was late, so there's the question of where you were beforehand. Not doing your job, apparently." House watched a white moth fly past, scratching the scruff of his chin thoughtfully.

"Was that a question, House, or are you just talking to hear the sound of your own voice?" It was fun and not true sarcasm that ebbed from Cameron's voice and she smiled at him, enjoying his perplexed expression. Someone's got to step up the plate and ride him when Foreman and Chase aren't around, she thought, throwing in a sports metaphor for her own private amusement.

After meandering, his gaze comes full circle and he studies her quizzically, silently. _House knows that sometimes you learn more if you keep quiet, although he is seldom patient enough to wait. _

Hair crazed around her face from the static, and far from freshly showered, nothing can quell the effect she has on him as she brushed stray locks off her forehead with the back of her hand.

She looked like the Cameron he had hired, the Cameron who wore adorable puffy-sleeved shirts along with an innate sense of kindness and decency, the Cameron who surprised him with remembering his birthday, who stocked jars in his office with candy canes at Christmas, and always said thank you for that which she received.

This couldn't be the same woman who had provoked him not long ago to tell her to shut up. He'd hollered it directly into her face, actually, when she'd confronted him about a case – or was it about his personal life? She'd been known to meddle in both. Anyway, she'd henpecked him like an interloper and he'd reacted.

She'd deserved the harsh treatment and more. A face slap, perhaps.

_What's gotten into you??_ House had thought. _Wasn't ecstasy enough? Now you're fucking Chase like tomorrow's Armageddon. And yet I keep silent. What the hell is wrong with you? What the hell is wrong with me? _

The diagnostician considered this: Foreman was the one who feared that he'd turn into House, but it was Cameron who had really changed.

Or so it seemed.

Last night when she came to the office, she was the way he'd remembered. Her steady hand on his shoulder as he fought the searing pain in his ravaged leg, her soothing, quiet voice close to his ear, she was like aloe. He couldn't have sent her away even if he had wanted to be rid of her.

Examining the black helmet in his hands, he blinked, realizing how much he had missed her, that younger, softer Allison.

Had he ever called Cameron by her first name? He can't remember. House preferred her as the person she had always been to him, the person she would always be: Cameron. Allison has never fit her. If he were the kind of guy to give people nicknames, he'd affectionately call her "Al." He wasn't that guy. Far from it. Maybe it was the fact that he had a dirty mind or maybe it was just a natural thing, but he could see calling her "Al" in the throes of an orgasm. Then again when Mount Gregory blew, he wasn't responsible for what came out of is mouth. Cameron suited her, even if it had once belonged to her husband, or as House liked to think of him, the bastard who beat him to her. So what if he was dead. That was no reason not to hate him.

Cameron pulled her arms across the thin material of her white blouse and rubbed her shoulders, shivering. For a spring afternoon, it was nippy, and the wind from the motorcycle ride had left her chilled.

"Cold?" House shrugged off his motorcycle jacket, wrapping it like a shawl across her shoulders. His eyes flicked from her silk shirt to her form-fitting hip hugging trousers and down to her high-heeled ankle boots. Sexy as hell, without a doubt, but he liked it better when she had to look up at him from a great distance. Made him feel more like God.

"Shouldn't wear heels, Cameron. Bad for the feet." He hesitated at her quizzical expression, then leveled her with a look. "Just because you're small doesn't mean you're not taken seriously. Although if I had a dime for every joke written about you in the men's room, well, I'd never have to do clinic duty again. Wear flats."

Without heels, she barely reached his clavicle. The smaller she was, the more he towered over her. It tugged at his heart to look down at her, so vulnerable, to wonder what it would be like to pull her to him again, but this time, to hold on to her.

"Thanks. For the jacket." Cameron handed him her helmet. "I should go. This has been …"

"What was it?" he interrupted her to find out what her 20 Questions "thing" had been, surprised to find that for once, he didn't require the answer to a puzzle. He was mildly curious, however. His guess would have been a dildo or a dick, items that Cameron might think would shock him – but then he had been sexed up all weekend, and if Wilson were in his head, he'd say that House was "projecting."

What he hoped was that the way Cameron answered would tell him something new about her. _Just anything._

She blushed.

That was a good sign, he thought, the corners of his mouth turning up.

Her hands went to her hips, and she tilted her head at him, squinting in the late afternoon sun.

"My best friend suffers from acute depressive episodes. Her meds messed up her ability to … to have orgasms. When I was at Mayo, I did a little research on vibrators and found out that they could really help women like Mia," she said earnestly, her voice lilting. "When we began playing 20 Questions, I was thinking of her, and remembered that her psychiatrist recommended the Emotional Bliss line of vibes. They really helped her. She's abandoning immunology and going into sex therapy. No, seriously!" Cameron laughed at House's incredulous expression. "Would I lie to you? Oh, yeah. That's right. I would."

"You would?" House echoed, wracking his brain to recall if he had ever caught her in an untruth.

"No. Of course not." Cameron reassured him, patting his shoulder.

"Okay," House reacted to this, drawing out the syllables of the word, as was his way.

And then she smirked.

House grabbed her by the shoulders and gently shook her. "You would, wouldn't you? You're not … uncomplicated."

"So, did you guess it?" she asked, placing her hands on his shoulders, so in their cowardly fashion, they're holding each other – at a safe distance.

Hospital personnel walking by would have thought that the two of them were an item. Whether that had more to do with their physical ease with each other or the unusually soft look around House's eyes, and the way Cameron's face tilted laughingly up to his, was a mystery.

As Cameron queried, pulling his jacket closer around her frame, House tucked his smile out of sight.

"Got me on that one," he lied.

A passing car backfired and the two of them pulled apart.

Cameron backed toward her car, still facing House. "So, I'm going to go take a long, hot shower. Guess I'll see you Monday?"

_Fuck._ House panicked.

_I want to see her. I want her in my miserable pathetic fucking little life._

Last time he asked her out – for dinner, for drinks, _after all, he heard himself say, we both have to eat_ – she turned him down.

WWWD. _What would Wilson do?_

"Got hopes, dreams, aspirations?" he asked, remembering some advice Wilson had parceled out that he still hadn't used.

"_What_?" Cameron bit her bottom lip to quell her laughter. "That is so Wilson!"

House scrunched up his face at her.

"Big plans tonight?" he asked. "'Cause if you're not doing anything besides _showering_, Wilson lent me his copy of Happiness Now: Timeless Wisdom for Feeling Good Fast. "

Hands on hips, her fine features fixed in an expression he recognized from when he tried to convince her to come back to work after she'd resigned. It was an expression that indicated, _that's not going to cut it._

"Not fun enough? Okay … extreme sports, then. Come and watch skateboard vid clips. There's a new one with sick trick tips from Paraguay." He spun a helmet into the air and caught it, grinning.

"House, what are you getting at? What do you want?" Cameron asked him the million-dollar question.

In response, House free-associated, gazing off into the distance and watching as a cloud shaped like a pair of bazookas drifted past.

_I want my leg back the way it was. I want you on my arm. I want your small hands dipped in hemp seed oil stroking my cock, that and your hair spread out and trailing my chest, that and your mouth, more of it against mine. I want your thighs spread wide apart. I want to be inside…_

"I forgot to give you your birthday present," he shrugged and slapped his forehead with mock exaggeration. "Come and open it."

Cameron narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "My birthday's in December."

"I like to be early." He wonders what the hell she'd like.

She sighs. "What time?"

Consulting his watch, House decides on eight.

"And then we'll play Twister naked," he yells at her back as she walks to her cream-colored Camry.

* * *

Back in his neighborhood, House limps along the street, doing what he does best with life outside of the hospital: he peers into windowpanes and keeps his distance.

Through the glass, he observed ordinary people living ordinarily.

_House window-shops at life._

What to buy for Cameron? The fact that after three years, he still didn't know what she'd like is a dig at his deductive powers of reason, not to mention his intuition. She's still such a mystery to him.

An image of himself in the flower shop made him cringe at his attempts to pick out blooms for her corsage. Yet it had been a hit.

Something simple, or something funny, or both, he thought. The latter came to him as he passed a curio establishment, where he found an old powerful magnifying glass. He was pretty sure he had a punch line to go with it.

As for the something simple, well, that was complicated for a man with an intellect like his.

His head down, memorizing his red-tinged sneakers, he almost missed it.

Muriel's.

A sign above the store read "Muriel's Intimate Apparel," but House was oblivious to this salacious detail. He would have limped past it if it weren't for a flash of white materializing in his peripheral vision like lightning.

Stooped over his cane, House glanced inside.

The window display featured an array of negligees. A red satin sheath clung to the curves of a mannequin and a silk paisley two-piece thing-a-ma-jig screamed, "Take me from behind." The shorts were cut parallel to the pelvis and the tank top ended above the belly button. The ensemble was lascivious.

House licked his lips as his thoughts trotted off and dressed Cameron in the get-up, and then undressed her.

Behind the sexy eye candy and off to the side he spotted it: a white cotton nightgown with eyelets. The hem was scalloped, edged in lace, and fell to mid-thigh, and the weave of the material was so fine it was diaphanous. Its simple lines and old-fashioned vibe brought Cameron to mind.

He stepped closer to the window display, imagining how she would look in the teddy, and wondering if she'd act virginal, dressed in white lace, or if her sexuality would burst from its confines, spill out of its bustier.

Perhaps he was reading too much into it, but the garment seemed to exemplify everything he loved about Cameron. Its structure and decorative details spoke of truth, beauty, sincerity, fun, openness, intelligence, and the kind of hidden sexuality that peeked out from under her reading glasses. The nightgown gave him a queer pang in his heart.

His ticker wasn't the only organ stirred by the sight.

In his mind's eye he saw her nipples darkened beneath the fabric and imagined the patch of springy sable hair visible between her legs, and under the thatch, the lips of her sex, engorged and awaiting his tongue, his hands, his feet, and his hard, hot cock to seduce it.

_He wants to be naked and feel her crawl up onto him, her body trailing this bit of white cloth across his sensitive skin._

Looking from left to right down the sidewalk, House took a step forward, stopped, lowered his chin, stroked the growth that shadowed his face, then pushed open the door to the shop.

To his chagrin, wind chimes rang out in the key of "C" as he came in, resonating throughout the potpourri-infested store. He made a face at nothing in particular and limped over to the counter, where a plump woman of more than sixty-five stood checking off items on a clipboard.

With hardly a glance, she called, "Mother?" to the back of the room. "Customer."

A round-faced, gray-haired elderly personage appeared from behind a rack of apparel, and upon seeing House, did a double take before crying out, "It's you!"

She beamed, throwing her arms around his waist and resting her wrinkled cheek against his warm chest. House's arms remained at his sides, until the old woman turned her face to his and he recognized Georgia, who he had treated for syphilis, a condition that in her case, had killed brain cells with the delightful result of stimulating the pleasure center of her cerebral cortex. In spite of himself, he had been amused and charmed by her ardor, as she'd professed the unladylike urge to boink him.

House held her by the elbows and drew her away from him when he felt her rub her pelvis against his thigh. "You've been…getting some," he declared, narrowing his eyes at her flushed cheeks and happy smile. "Your glow would put a nuclear reactor to shame."

With a gleam in her brown eyes, magnified by her glasses, Georgia exclaimed, "Oh, Dr. House. I've found my new best friend, the Womolia vibrator. Muriel helped me order it from Babeland. Who needs a man when you can wield one of those newfangled contraptions?"

"You hussy," he teased her, smile creases appearing alongside his mouth, and decided not to fill her in on the long history of sex toys.

"I just wish I'd known about those buzzers sooner." She frowned, but then her expression brightened. "I still like to look at men, and working here for my daughter, I see lovely, lovely specimens coming in to browse or buy delicates. None so handsome as Ashton Kutcher, or _you_, Dr. House." Georgia smiled flirtatiously. "How is your sex life? Are you free to tango?"

"Like the Sahara." House sidestepped the second query with the grace of Gene Kelly as he pointed at the white negligee with his cane. "But I feel lucky."

Georgia followed the tip of the cane and reached for the lingerie.

"The one on display, it's her size," House uttered with the confidence of a man who has studied every inch of his lover's body. In a way, he had.

As Georgia boxed and wrapped the garment, she peered over her spectacles at House. "You come back and see me. I want to hear the particulars."

As House exited the shop, the box with its red ribbon tucked underneath his arm, he heard Georgia murmur to her daughter, "That man is sex on a stick."

"That's why I let you wait on him, mom. I knew you'd get off on those blue eyes."

Back at his place, House tossed the box on his bed, and laid down, arms crossed beneath his head, eyes staring at the ceiling.

He rolled over on his side and fingered the satin ribbon, enjoying the sensation of it between his digits, and imagining how he might use it to please her.

Okay, he admitted to himself. So the gift wasn't about what Cameron wanted. It was about what he wanted.

He could live with that.

Besides, there was the magnifying glass. Okay, so it was a joke. Still, he knew she'd love it. That box was wrapped in blue paper and tied with a green ribbon, and it remained where he'd set it. On top of the piano, behind the Complete Set of Sherlock Holmes that Wilson had given him one Christmas.

He reached over to his bedside bureau for his iPod. Soon The Beatles filled his head, and he sat up in bed, clutching his right leg, and singing along with "I Dig a Pony."

"All I need is you: everything has got to be just how you want it to, because…" he yodeled, and grabbing his Gameboy, he settled in:

Waiting for her to come.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks to all who read & review. You are wonderful & you rule at life. FYI: I think from now on this story will be rated "M." **

**Disclaimer: I do not now, nor have I ever owned "House m.d." or its characters. And I write for the pure pleasure of it.**


	12. The Waiting is the Hardest Part

**Disclaimer: Nope.**

**A/N: Forgive me. I had to write a transitional chapter to lead into the good stuff. Although, there is plenty of sexual heat in this chapter, so read on. This chapter and the next are dedicated to Kymba and Katej for a myriad of reasons. **

**This story will be located under the M rating from now on.  
**

* * *

  
House waited for her to come as patiently as a two-year-old whose toy is in the grubby hands of a playmate. He waited with the mentality of a toddler who must have his way immediately.

_I want her. I want her _now.

Lolling on his bed, thumbs cramped from a _Battletoads _marathon, he tortured himself. What if she had second thoughts, came to her senses, and vowed not to venture anywhere near him except during differential diagnoses?

The doubt that spurred him to destroy their date pricked his consciousness.

_A rock feels no pain, but there are times when pain defines me. _

When it comes to Cameron, he brings hurt upon himself.

He knows what he's saying to her each time he makes a sarcastic remark or rebuffs her when she's trying to be … nice:

_Get out of my House._

(Did he give her a key? Or did she steal one? He taught her all she knows about breaking and entering.)

And each time he walks away from her – because he always walks away, these words cross his mind:_ This time I've lost her. _

_Haven't I? _

The Dark Queen snatches Pimple and Princess Angelica, and now they're sending distress signals to him on his hand held. With the help of Professor T. Bird, he swoops through the cosmos in The Vulture to save them before the Dark Queen banishes the duo to the lonely corners of Ragnarok's orbit, the space between the stars, infinite darkness.

Cyberspace is an unworthy adversary for a House-sized brain. Not even _Battletoads_ can relax House or distract him from_ his feelings. _Hurling the Game Boy across the room as if it was an oversized tennis ball and just might bounce back, House sat up in bed and swung his feet to the floor, clutching his leg.

Pain crashed like a white-capped wave upon his thigh. _How long, O Lord, how long? _He stretched out his arms and tilted his head like Christ on a cross.

_Until she comes again._

His pain recedes in direct relation to Cameron's proximity.

Before she materialized in his office, he was ready to gnaw off his leg like a feral wolf. After hours in her presence, pain was an afterthought.

_When darkness comes and pain is all around  
like a bridge over troubled waters  
I will lay me down._

That's Cameron.

_His Cameron. _

He holds her in his heart like a newborn puppy, wonderingly.

Sometimes he lingers by her in the lab as she peers through her microscope so he can smell the herbal garden of her hair, so his arm brushes her shoulder.

Sometimes he sneaks up behind her while she's looking at the menu at The Grill. He wants to pull her against him and circle her waist with his arms in full view of everyone in the cafeteria. Instead he balances his tray on her head while she rolls her eyes.

Oh, to back her up against his desk, unzip her faded jeans, and finger her clit through the lacy black of her panties while his tongue probes her sweet mouth.

When she approaches him at his desk, he wants to draw her onto his lap so she is straddling him, cradle her head in his hands, and kiss her until her lips are swollen.

His bum leg puts an end to that fantasy every time.

He is haunted by the reality of her, so close to him, as they stared each other into a state of criminal arousal at Deuces, and the reality of her, free of makeup and dwarfed by his extra long tee as she watched him in his bed.

Her eyes on his eyes.

Her eyes on his body.

Her eyes where he's hard.

_The light, the heat, in her eyes._

Grabbing his cane, he limped into the living room, poured himself an inch of McCallan's from the liquor cabinet, and inserted videotape into the television.

_General Hospital_'s theme song filled the apartment.

For House's Christmas gift, Wilson had searched eBay and unearthed old tapes of the soap, the years where Luke and Scorpio frolicked with the babes of daytime television, pursuing adventures, solving mysteries, and protecting Port Charles from shady characters like the Cassadine clan.

Remote in hand, House fast-forwarded through a scene where bland Dr. Webber and Leslie, his wife du jour, discussed a case of amnesia. And then he got to the good stuff: Scorpio and Luke zooming the Templetons, sexpot sisters played by Demi Moore and Janine Turner.

Relaxing into the couch and sipping his single-malt, House lifted his tumbler to an imaginary Wilson in gratitude. As Scorpio and Jackie argued, then segued into a passionate kiss, he remembered Stacy's crush on the Port Charles police commissioner and how he'd entertained her with his best rendition of Rogers' acting: "Scorpio here," he'd barked in a pitch-perfect Australian accent, holding a banana to his ear like a telephone.

He checked his watch. The exact time was irrelevant. It wasn't eight yet.

It was too soon for Cameron to appear.

Tapping the hardwood floor with his cane, he tinkered with the remote, played with his watchband, scratched his forearm, sighed heavily, and switched off the television, holding the device sideways like a gangsta with a handgun.

Launching himself off of the sofa, he limped over to the piano, and set the scotch on a coaster. Running his fingers up and down the keyboard like Bach composing the Goldberg Variations, he played Chopin's etudes with a Ray Manzarek twist to entertain himself, and then took Dave Brubeck's five seven five time and applied it to Beethoven's sonatas.

Turning melancholy, he played the How Long Blues, riffing off of Jimmy Yancey, and noting the irony of the tune: its tempo was a lesson in patience, while its melody and title implied the kind of yearning that demanded immediate gratification.

If there were witnesses, they would have howled at House's methods of killing time. It was tragicomic, like Beckett's masterpiece.

In high school he'd been cast to play Estragon in a production of Waiting for Godot. The director had tagged him for the part, explaining that his lugubrious demeanor would translate well on stage. Never a team player, he had amped up his performance. The rest of the cast had accused him of scenery chewing, but the audience had hooted at his antics. Some of his peers teasingly called him Estrogen after that, but it was worth it to deliver lines like this one, he'd thought:

"People are bloody ignorant apes."

Or to yawn and feign sleep while stating: "I find this really most extraordinarily interesting."

Making an anagram of his character's name, he'd come up with: O, strange.

There was one bit from Waiting for Godot that stuck in his memory:

**Vladimir**: What do we do now?  
**Estragon: **Wait.  
**Vladimir: **Yes, but while waiting.  
**Estragon: **What about hanging ourselves?  
**Vladimir: **Hmm. It would give us an erection.  
**Estragon: **(highly excited). An erection!

Any references to sex had stuck to him like adhesive during those horny adolescent years. Still did, he admitted with a shrug, as he plinked out a little ditty he'd composed on the piano.

Estragon still lurked within him, House acknowledged. Or maybe he had always been an existential anti-hero. It's what Wilson would say.

That nasal, whiny Tom Petty was right, he thought, abruptly jerking his hands from the piano. _The waiting _is _the hardest part, unless you count my prick when I'm picturing Cameron in that little white whatsit._

Just like that a thought coasted into his consciousness like a surfer in a Dick Dale song. It was a nightmare of a visual that the dark side of him conjured up like a black magic trick:

He pictured her with Chase, but it wasn't the two of them tearing off each other's clothes in the supply closet, it was an image of her at the door to Dr. Dweeb's apartment, a tender look upon her face. When Blondie opened up, she stepped forward and kissed him on the mouth, trailing her fingers over his smooth, young face … and it was love, not just sex for convenience.

House shook his head like a retriever emerging from a lake, and rid himself of the mental picture of doom by remembering the way her mouth opened up to his as he'd kissed her in his living room earlier that day, the way her fingers trailed reluctantly down his chest as he pulled away.

_Remember, she likes you._

_She likes you_, the voice of Wilson reminds him.

Once more, House consults his watch. It's five past eight.

She's late.

* * *

Cameron was in the free zone, the mindless place of peace she attained like a Zen state when she ran. Slap, slap, slap. Her New Balance sneakers touched down on the pavement as her thoughts floated above her like balloons.

_Massive clouds called morning glories roil over the Gulf of Carpentaria._ This random fact drifted through her brain and flapped away. Where it came from, she couldn't have said. _The Latin name for the largest kind of dragonfly is __Libellulidae_ Archaic knowledge she must have picked up in a science class and retained. It passed on through unfettered by analysis. _The African Bullfrog exists to feed and mate_, or as House would say, "It's hungry and horny!" She giggled at her line of thought as she glanced at the shops on Nassau Street, passing Muriel's Intimate Apparel. Jogging backwards she admires one of the less overt pieces on display, a lacy white see-through negligee, wondering what House would think of her in it.

Sometimes on her runs memories played like home movies. Visiting her parents during the first year of her fellowship with House, they'd gone to a Butterfly Dome. While her mother and father wandered arm and arm throughout the humid, glassed interior, she fixated on an Emerald Peacock Swallowtail as it buried its head between the petals of a yellow hibiscus, feasting on its stamen. The flower nestled in a clump of _conocarpus erectus_. She had nearly hyperventilated at the raw sexuality of it.

Among the orchids and the insects, she'd been overwhelmed with the pressing and immediate physical need to _have House_. She'd wanted skin on skin, a tangle of limbs, devilry in the dark, his face a satyr lit by a candle, House between the sheets, House between her legs.

Her mouth on his; her mouth on him.

That evening, she had stood with her parents doing what people in the Midwest do for entertainment: They'd stood around her father's Night Bloomer bushes, waiting for the tight yellow buds to let go of the leaves and uncurl.

The buds responded the way she knew her body would for House. They opened up and flowered.

The whole weekend had seemed rife with sexual metaphor, while House was inconveniently several states away. And yet he clung to her, his residue was everywhere like pollen. She couldn't shake him.

A skateboarder weaved around her like Bart Simpson, and she recognized a song by Pavement leaking from his iPod.

"Love your dreads," she shouted at his back.

Sometimes while running she was hit with the purity of pain, of deep loneliness and a sense of loss so keen that silent tears marked her face as she picked up her pace.

Later, in the lab, while watching molecules separate and cells multiply under her microscopes, she'd find that her grief was for what could be, not what had been.

It was about House.

She jumped at the rude blast of a car horn as a driver swerved to avoid hitting a cyclist who had ignored a red light. Jogging in place until the light turned green, she tried to remember the first time House had made her stomach flutter in sexual excitement.

Her body had opened up and tuned in when House had tossed his cane away and lurched forward to incubate John Henry Giles, saving the jazz musician's life. The sight of his biceps bulging as he'd leaned over the man had nearly sent her sprawling, and the intent expression on his face, the determination in his blue eyes, the sound of his voice as he gave orders, utterly confident, made her tingle inside.

Even at the conclusion of her interview, she'd felt her breath catch as House had grasped her hand – at Wilson's urging, she recalled with a smile. As she felt the lean muscles of his elegant hand close over hers, he'd looked at her as if to say, "I can see who you are." She'd met his gaze and recognized him as a man who knew things, a man who hid things in the recesses of his being, a man acquainted with pain. And in his eyes she'd also spied a man who was capable of love, a man who knew what to do in the dark.

She pictured him in the shower where she'd found him tripping on LSD and listening to Gomez, a towel thrown haphazardly around his waist, water dripping off his face, his body. Mentally, she'd kissed his mouth, twirled her tongue around his hardened nipples, licked the water off down along his taut stomach, in and out of his naval. And then she'd removed the towel.

Cameron glanced at her Nike Triax Sports watch and huffed out a lungful of air, slowing her pace to a fast walk as she approached her apartment.

She would have to hurry if she was going to shower and make a few stops before heading over to House's place. Wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, she wondered: Was this a date?

Did it matter? Not to her. Not anymore.

All she knew was this: If she hadn't gone for a run, she'd have pulled out her hair waiting to be with him again, to be close enough to run a finger along his arm, and watch his mouth and eyes as pleasure and anticipation played across his face at her slightest touch.

_I want contact, _she thought.

_I want contact._


	13. It Had to Be You

**Disclaimer: I do this for free, in my spare time between working full-time with crazy people and trying to maintain a marriage. I could be delusional, but as far as I know, the show and its characters belong to powers greater than me.**

**A/N: Thanks to my alpha, beta, and omega: Kymba, ColorOfAngels, and Katej. Kymba and ColorOfAngels provided editorial honors and Katej ... is a remarkable personage whom I adore. BTW, Katej designed my LJ page, so you should visit my LJ, which is under my username. I still have to work on the tags. Sorry.  
**

* * *

House had just slid his red Nikes from the piano's pedals and lifted his hands from the keyboard, the last chord of "Maybe I'm Amazed" lingering in the room like the taste of single malt scotch on his tongue when a sharp distinctive knock interrupted the moment.

McCartney's voice looped through his head. Damn that Silly Love Songs writing Beatle, House cursed the songwriter as sentimental lyrics and an impossibly catchy melody stuck to him like a Beelzebug, an insect that wouldn't die no matter how many times you swatted it.

_Baby I'm amazed at the way you love me all the time  
Maybe I'm afraid of the way I love you  
Baby I'm amazed at the way you pulled me out of time  
Hung me on a line_  
_Maybe I'm amazed at the way I really need you_

He swung his body off the bench and leaving his cane where he'd propped it against the instrument, hobbled to the door, favoring his left leg and using random pieces of furniture like crutches. All the while he pictured Cameron in a hundred different outfits, from her neutral-toned trouser and vest combos fitted over purple-hued puffy sleeved blouses to the satiny red gown that molded her figure and branded it into his brain like a tattoo. Realizing he didn't care if she came to the door dressed in sackcloth and ashes, he reached for the doorknob.

Tapping a finger against his chin, he hesitated, and then decisively threw the door wide open. Seeing the familiar sensitive face on the other side, he slammed it shut.

"_Affenschwanz_," House cursed.

One perk of being an army brat was picking up smorgasbords of swear words in a variety of languages. As a non-romance language, German was his favorite. It got right to the point that Wilson was a monkey dick.

"House. Open up." Wilson's voice wheedled its way through the wood and after a few seconds, House did as his friend had asked.

Wilson was treated to the delightful sight of House's face the way it looked when he'd eaten a slice of pickle unawares.

"Don't mean to be rude, but this door is on a timer and in 10 seconds it'll slam. Might want to step back, I wouldn't want to damage your earnest, hopeful face." The diagnostician held his brown leather watch to his ear as he stabbed Wilson with his eyes. "Tick, tick, tick."

Without further ado, Wilson thrust a cone of Zinnias and a brown grocery bag into House's arms and stepped backward, having learned long ago that House's bite could be as bad as his bark. "Here. The corsage aside, you suck when it comes to romance. This stuff might … help you over the hump."

Leaning against the doorframe, House sniffed the bag suspiciously. "How did you know that I … that Cameron?"

"That you had a date?" Wilson suppressed the urge to scream the last word the way House would have done had the tables been turned. His friend wrinkled his nose up at the word 'date.' "I may not be the Great Brain, but me and my little brain have our share of deductive reasoning skills …"

Wilson could see this was not going to fly with House, who wore skepticism like cosmetics on his face. "Okay … I ran into Cameron in the hospital parking lot after you dropped her off this afternoon. And by the way, she didn't call it a date. I dared to presume."

House turned his attention to the contents of the bag, mild amusement playing over his features as he inventoried the items.

There was a little blue bottle of silicone based lubricant, condoms with the antibacterial component built in, a bottle of Bardolino, a half dozen Spanish Patron Saint candles – like he'd ever use candles to set the mood – and inexplicably, a red silk scarf.

The look he lobbed at Wilson was a question mark.

Clearing his throat, Wilson explained the purchases one by one. "This," he said of the lubricant, "is like magic. Trust me." Pulling out the condoms and then tossing them back into the bag, he shrugged them away with this remark: "They're industrial strength."

"To protect me from big, bad Cameron, who you've deductively reasoned has the clap? I should cuff you for that," House shifted the bag to his other arm and faked a punch like a wily pugilist.

"Um, no. You're the one who consorts with … wanton women of the night. I'm just trying to … protect Cameron." Wilson reached back into the sack and held up for House's inspection a glass-encased candle with a brightly colored image of Our Lady of Guadalupe.

"Sex paraphernalia and religious symbolism. You don't think the mixed messages will throw her off balance?" House snatched the candle from his hand and tilted the saint's face this way and that until it looked as distorted and elongated as one of Goya's Christs.

"No-o, making her dizzy – and I assume you mean with desire and not with, oh, dismay – is up to you and your … good loving," Wilson's sarcasm bounced off House and landed in the shrubbery. "Besides, I had just enough time to pick up flowers at Jardinière and swing by the Mexican grocery before…"

"You think I'm pathetic, that I need props in order to spend an evening with …" House paused as Wilson took a step toward him and wagged a finger in his face.

"With the first, and, let's face it, House, the only woman who has held your attention since Stacy." Wilson finished a thought that House never would have articulated out loud. "And at the risk of sounding like a Greek Chorus, yes. You're pathetic and you need help." Wilson glanced at his watch. "Gotta go. I'm meeting up with Cuddy for a drink." He flashed his friend a cunning smile.

"Need some of these?" House raised his eyebrows a smidgeon and grabbed a couple of the condoms, offering them to Wilson. "Of course, Cuddy _wants_ a baby."

Wilson pushed the condoms away. "Got it covered, House." He turned and jogged away from the door, his Italian loafers clicking on the cement as House went back inside, moving toward the bedroom with the supplies. Unpacking the sack, the red silk scarf caught his eye and realizing that Wilson hadn't mentioned it, he punched speed dial on his phone.

"What is it, House?" annoyance and long-suffering registering in Wilson's voice.

"The silk scarf?" House fingered it, enjoying the satiny sensation against his nerve endings.

"Threw it in on a whim. Use your imagination."

House held the phone away from his ear as Wilson hung up on him. That he could do.

Procuring his cane from the piano, he limped over to the set of phrenology heads that Wilson's second wife Bonnie had given him before she'd developed a severe allergic reaction to the sight of him. Since he had allegedly ruined her marriage, she'd gone into anaphylactic shock and required epinephrine if she even heard his name. Or so Wilson said. It might have been a wee exaggeration. Trust Bonnie to take stock in pseudo-science. At least she hadn't bought him framed astrology charts, House thought. Turning the L.N. Fowler bust around in his hands, he stared at the back of the head behind the ears – the hypothalamus – and read "a love of sex. Amativeness." Hope resided near the center of the cranium, next to trust, faith, and wonder.

Whatever.

For someone who rejected the existence of an all-powerful creator of the universe, Cameron had never lost faith in him, and she'd seen him at his most pathetic: _Blood seeping from straight, deep cuts on the inside of his forearm._ (He knew his way around a razor blade). The face he had seen at his door that night held no judgment or condemnation. It was free of pity and there was nothing to indicate that she thought he was pathetic. She knew he wasn't like other people; she also knew he was human. There was no one else he would have allowed inside his apartment that night.

House recalled the last time he had said, "I love you." It was the last thing he remembered saying to Stacy before Cuddy placed him in a medically induced coma. Stacy had asked him if he would give up a leg for her. Of course he would, if it meant saving her life. What had happened to that man, he wondered, the man whose feelings of love and affection for a woman were as strong and constant as a band of steel? He'd thought that part of him had died along with the muscles of his leg, until Cameron had come along, stirring up sexuality, curiosity, and, it seemed, love and affection.

He replaced the phrenology head, and turned to examine the framed results of his Myers-Briggs personality test. Wilson had gotten him drunk on tequila shots one night as the two men watched reruns of "Hogan's Heroes," drinking each time Colonel Klink shook his fist and with his voice rising said, "Hogan," and every time Schultz said, "I know nothing … nothing," in his German accent and each time Newkirk removed the radio from the coffee pot. The night was a blur, but he had a vague memory that a bet was involved and as a result he had taken the test, a Jungian exercise in socionics. House had faith in psychology as a science the same way he had faith in human nature. It was bullocks. And yet when Wilson informed him that he was an ESTJ, the same personality type as Sherlock Holmes, he laughed. When it turned out that Wilson shared Watson's type, House had rolled that around in his brain for a while before dismissing the whole business as crap.

A tentative rap at his front door interrupted his train of thought. Glancing at his watch, he noted that it was quarter past eight. He wondered how his meticulously punctual immunologist, always the first person in the office, could be so tardy when it came to social engagements.

Cracking the door an inch or so, he peered into a very pretty face. Unfortunately, the pouty mouth, high cheekbones and coiffed hair belonged not to Allison Cameron, but to the intensivist he liked to call Bleach Boy.

For the second time in 15 minutes, House slammed the door shut and began limping away until he heard Chase's voice splinter like an adolescent boy's as the youngster invoked Cameron's name.

"_Klootzak. Gatlikker_." Only Dutch profanity would suffice when it came to Chase. The man raised his ire as much as the average clinic patient – enough to stick a rectal thermometer in his ass and leave it there.

House swung the door open so fast that Chase nearly tumbled into him. That was all House needed: another hug from the _ignoranus._

"Remember the Arnello brothers, Joey and Bill? The 'Sopranos' of Princeton Plainsboro? I've got 'em on speed dial." House held his cane out in front of him like a semi-automatic and aimed it at Chase's head.

The ex-seminarian stood in the doorway, wearing a vest over a button-down shirt, a tie decorated with tiny crossword puzzles, and a hangdog look. A cap dangled from one hand. His eyes were red-rimmed, House noticed.

When the blank-faced lad failed to respond, House shoved his shoulder with the tip of his cane. "Are you catatonic?

Finally, the intensivist came to life and pushed the cane back at his boss. "I'm looking for Cameron. I, uh, I ran into Wilson at the clinic and he said he saw the two of you … together." Chase leveled his pale blue eyes at House's.

"Try her apartment," House suggested, thinking that Chase's accent wasn't nearly as cool as Tristan Rogers' Aussie accent on GH. "I have to pee."

Chase's Balmoral cap-toe Oxford prevented House from slamming the door on him a second time. "I already did. She's not there."

"Not my problem. Beat it. Scram." House ordered. When Chase hesitated, he took a step toward the younger doctor. "Don't make me hit you again."

The Australian didn't flinch. "What are you hiding?" he asked, jerking his thumb towards the interior of House's condo.

House heard room for interpretation behind the query, but he chose to ignore it.

"You'll have to ask the CIA. Look, Chase. She's not here. Go home, get yourself an inflatable doll or – wait – I have the number for a hooker who's a dead ringer for Carmen Electra." House stuck his hand in his jeans pocket and pantomimed looking for a slip of paper. "Whatever you do, forget about Cameron."

Chase's eyes dropped. "But I … love her."

"It's contagious," House muttered under his breath.

"What?"

House didn't bother to answer. Instead he used the advantage of his height to tower imposingly over the wanker.

"You want me to tell you that she's over me. That she loves you back. You want reassurance and you came to me? You're even dumber than you look. She used you to get to me."

"Did she? Get to you?" Chase asked, squinting up at the diagnostician while placing his cap on his head.

It was a good question. From time to time, Chase exhibited signs of intelligence, and House almost liked the kid.

"If I told you the answer to that I'd just have to whack you, and that would be messy. You know, all the gray matter and blood dirtying up my property. Eew," House said, mimicking Chase's squint with one of his own.

"Wilson said the two of you looked … happy." Chase made a strange face as he said the word, as if picturing a feel-good version of House had taxed his imagination to its breaking point.

"Life sucks. She doesn't love you. Get over it, but do it elsewhere," House commanded, pointing toward the sidewalk with his cane.

Defiance altered Chase's handsome features. "You don't know what love is," he declared, making a fist of his hand and clenching his jaw.

"And you think you do? Have _you_ learned the meaning of the blues?"

House was truly flabbergasted at the level of Chase's sheer ignorance and naïveté. Had he nurtured a five-year relationship? The guy who blew off both his earthly and heavenly fathers and who dated a dominatrix questioned House's ability to love.

"What?" Chase responded, utterly clueless.

"George Benson," House snarled. "And if we're going to quote great lyrics by mahogany men, listen to this: anyone can tell you think you know me well. Well _you don't know me_."

"You … like her, don't you." A light bulb, albeit a dim one, lit up in Chase's head. "If you didn't like her, you wouldn't have come back and opened the door."

House looked over at the young maple tree Cameron had given him and absently reminded himself that tomorrow was the day he watered it. "Well, I'm not going to meet you at daybreak for a duel. How about this? Rock, paper, scissors…" he looked at Chase's clenched fist and brought his own hand down flat. "Paper beats rock. I win."

Brows furrowed, Chase shoved his hands into his pants pockets and looked down at his feet.

"So maybe I don't really know you," the younger man said referring back to the lyrics House had just recited. "But I do know Cameron. And I know you're right about her loving me. She doesn't. It's always been you." Chase shook his head in disgust. With a smirk that twisted his face into an ugly mask, he took a jab at House. "Want to know how she likes it?"

House felt the blood course through his veins and rise to his face as he mentally choked his subordinate to death and dropped him like a rag doll on the pavement.

"Think I'm on to it. We've been secretly shagging since our date. Want to know how my fist feels on your jaw? Oh, that's right. You already know. Now beat it, before I brain you with my cane."

Chase surprised him by standing his ground. "From what I hear, you can only score hookers these days. What does that say about Cameron? You can have her." Bitterness, hurt, and anger mixed like alcohol in his voice and tears hovered at the rims of his eyes. As he started to walk away, House spoke.

"First you gave up on God. Then you gave up on your dad. Now you're giving up on Cameron." House shook his head. "And you think I'm pathetic."

He stepped back and slammed the door with his cane, limping to the stereo and choosing the only music on earth besides The Who frenzied enough to ease his mind after the run-in with his young intensivist: Michael Rabin playing Paganini's 24 Violin Caprices. It was the sound of insanity on crack. Massaging his temples, House reached for his tumbler and took a sip of scotch, sinking into the soft leather of his couch.

At the sound of her soft knock, House took one last swig of Macallan, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and with the remote lowered the volume of the crazed Paganini caprices until the music faded into the background.

The virtuoso Italian composer – like blues legend Robert Johnson – was rumored to have sold his soul to the devil in exchange for his remarkable talent, House recalled as he pushed himself from the leather couch. But that implied that he had been offered a choice, and that wasn't the way it worked with geniuses. Sometimes the gift of extraordinary ability was as much of a burden as it was a boon. Regardless, Paganini, the wunderkind of his day, had died from mercury poisoning. No one had figured it out. Like with Napoleon, House regretted that he hadn't been around back then to make a diagnosis. He filed his thoughts away and grabbing his cane, limped to the door.

This time it had to be her.

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**A/N: So, what do you think? I hope some of you are enjoying reading this as much as I enjoy writing it. Click on the blue button to share your hopes, dreams, and aspirations.**


	14. Contact: Part One

**A/N: For the usual suspects, my readers, but specifically dedicated to Kymba & Katej, with thanks. Kymba & ColorOfAngels beta like it's an art form and have my gratitude.**

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Cameron shifted from foot to foot on his stoop, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear and checking out Cassiopeia and the Seven Sisters while waiting for House to open up.

As she'd switched back and forth between radio stations on the drive over she'd heard a disc jockey predict an electrical storm for later that night before turning the dial in time to hear the chorus of "No Such Thing."

At the moment, the sky was clear and inky with a three quarter moon. It was a perfect night for stargazing, but she had other plans.

_There are other ways to see stars. _

The door opened a crack and light poured out into the dark. House's face was framed like a photograph by the gap as he peered through it and saw her. His jaw dropped and without self-consciousness he stared at Allison Cameron. Was she real or was she a hallucination? He squinted to make sure.

She was simply beautiful, with minimal makeup and her hair secured by a barrette, wearing his jacket over a black seamless stretch halter with a scooped neckline that revealed her breastbone and the smattering of miniscule freckles against her snowy skin. The top ended parallel to her naval. Low-rise Joe's Jeans hugged her hips and accentuated the space between her thighs. The outfit was classy, sexy, sporty, and utterly feminine.

No one would need a stethoscope to diagnose that his heart raced as he devoured her from the safety of the doorway.

"You look … suspicious. Were you expecting someone else?" she asked quietly.

"You just missed Chase," he said. "You should know that I verbally abused your boyfriend."

_Almost killed him for implying you're a whore. Thought Tritter might have nailed me for murder, and where would that leave us?_

"That's nothing new, and he's not my boyfriend. You didn't punch him out again, did you?" Cameron wrinkled her nose at the thought of violence between the two of them.

"I restrained myself, but I did imagine the end of my cane covered in blood and blonde hair," House plead guilty from his confessional behind the doorway.

_I can't stand it that he touched you, fucked you first_.

"I don't want to talk about Robert," she asserted, studying House's countenance, as it was the only part of him she could see. Even his face was sexual. A look from him was like his tongue between her legs. His gaze stole her breath.

"Yeah. You want to talk about the way I feel … about you." He met her eyes, his expression serious, his voice resigned and blew out a lungful of air as his gaze moved from her face, which managed to be both caring and sensual, down over her body.

House acknowledged the swell of her small breasts, paused to admire the place where her waist curved into her slender hips, and continued on to ogle her shapely runner's legs. His gaze fell to her feet. They were bare except for a coat of scarlet polish on the toenails. She carried a pair of sling backs in one hand; the other clutched a large tote.

From the look in his eyes, Cameron was glad she had taken care with her appearance. As she'd stepped out of the shower back at her place, she had treated her skin to Neutrogena sesame body oil, the result being that every inch of her looked and felt silky and radiant.

Her skin shimmered in the moonlight.

"What is it?" she queried, as he fucked her with his eyes.

"You're … not what I expected."

She raised her eyes to his and fucked him back.

"You … like that."

Desire coiled like a snake in his belly and his cock twitched with awareness.

_I want you. I want you on me, above me, under me. I need you. I need to be inside you, to know you. _

Light from a streetlamp reflected off of House's striking eyes.

Cameron wanted – needed – to see more of him.

She had been waiting a long time.

"Are you going to let me in?" she asked softly, and offered him a smile. "I'm harmless."

_Tell that to Chase_, House thought, as he took a deep breath and swung open the door. His expression reminded her of the one he wore the night she had come to the condo to resign her position. For once his face was quiet, reflective. Cameron was treated to the sight of his toned torso in a black Replacements t-shirt and noticed that he wore the pair of button-fly jeans that clung to his muscular thighs and ass.

_She wanted to slip her hands beneath the tee, pull it up and over his head, kiss the skin below his naval, and then move up to lick his nipples erect._

"Could you take this for me please?" She handed him the tote, and shrugged off his black leather, handing the jacket to him. "I have some things in the car." As he hoisted the large handbag up and under his left shoulder, she glanced at the bulge of his biceps and the blue vein that stood out on his forearm. She longed to trace a finger along his inner arm where the skin would be sensitive.

He watched her ass as she walked away, swinging her shoes, and when she leaned over to open her car door, the shirt rode up to show the small of her back.

_I want my fingers between each vertebra._

Lifting a brown paper bag in one arm, she sauntered up the steps and he let her pass into the condo, breathing in the clean scent of pure Cameron plus a hint of fragrance so light that it was gone before he could name it. The smell of her alone made him consider throwing the tote on the floor, knocking the bag out of her arms, sweeping her up and carrying her to the bedroom. His leg would punish him for it, but _Christ who is Holy_, he thought. _I've got to nail that. _

He followed her into the condo and she set her bag of stuff on the table while he swung his jacket over a chair and set her tote next to it.

Since she had shed his black leather, he'd registered that her top was sleeveless; her arms and shoulders bare. He stared, holding himself back from running his hands over the silky skin.

Later, he promised himself.

"Hungry?" From the bag, she pulled two sticks of pink and blue cotton candy and a Clear Channel Motor Sports Gravedigger double feature.

"Nostalgic?" he shot back, grabbing a stick of the fluffy confection and taking a bite. Cane between his legs, he leaned back against the table where earlier that day they had looked at Us Magazine.

She walked over to him and ignoring her own stick of cotton candy, swiped his and licked it, enjoying the sensation of it melting against her tongue. "Um. Tastes like sugar and sawdust."

As he took the Monster Trucks DVD from her hand to examine it, the pads of their fingers touched sending a tiny volt to his cock. "Cool. Heavy metal. Even better than Girl Gone Wild: Sexy Sorority Sweethearts."

With studied nonchalance and an eye roll, she spoke. "I know you mentioned watching some Portuguese skateboarders pulling half chubs or flippin' a crapper, but I thought it would be nice to …what??" Cameron stopped talking as House folded his arms and looked at her skeptically.

"You've been hanging out at Wikipedia," he pronounced this observation as a fact, not a theory. A grin, as unexpected as a sunbeam in Scotland, broke over his devilishly attractive face. "I'm touched that you'd bother to nail the terminology of sick skateboarding tricks, but I hope it's not how you come up with your contributions to our differential diagnosis jam sessions."

Turning to him and leaning a slim hip up against the counter by his side, she laughed. "Oh, no. I consult an astrologist for that."

House grinned, glancing down at her and appreciating the fun that shone from her eyes. "Can't compete with my Magic Eight Ball."

"Did you know there's a trick they call the Wilson?" she asked, gauging his face for a reaction. "It's when a skater positions his feet wrong and ends up doing the splits."

A phantom smile softened his face, the one that you'd miss if you weren't tuned in to him. It flitted away as quickly as it appeared.

"Sounds like Wilson all over again," House said, hoping his voice didn't sound as thick with lust and emotion as he thought it might. He imagined his head, heart, and cock as three balls juggled by a clown.

Cameron.

Funny, capricious, caring, and the woman got him. There was something in the way she moved, in the way she was, that made him want her more than he had ever wanted any woman.

Still, making small talk was like a circle of hell to him on a normal day. With Cameron looking the way she did, and after the foreplay of their weekend, hell, the foreplay of the last three years, being nonchalant was proving to be more difficult than diagnosing a case of lupus, House thought with an inner growl.

"You're late," he abruptly brought the fact to her attention. "Why?"

He noted her blush.

"I wanted to look … nice," she replied, her hand moving up to smooth her hair. Wisps of it kept coming loose from her tortoise shell barrette.

_You look like a gift box. You look like an invitation. And yes, you look nice._

House turned to face her, tilting his chin to look into her eyes. "Interesting choice of adjective."

_I've seen you look nice._ House reflects, irritably._ I want to see you wanton: head thrown back, eyes closed, mouth half open, sensuality playing over your face, all that I've seen only in my dreams and – God help me – my fantasies._

Cameron jumped as what sounded like a cudgel slammed against the door to the condo.

"Go to hell!" House hollered in the direction of his front door, which was rapidly becoming the bane of his existence. The next knock was even louder. "Better get that," he muttered. "Feel free to plant your ass on a piece of furniture."

"My ass doesn't get an adjective? Cuddy's always does," she pointed out, grinning. "Actually you seem a little obsessed with Cuddy's behind."

_Your tight round rump. Want to cup it in my hands. When I look at you from behind, I can see the space between your thighs. I could so go there.  
_

"Fishing for a compliment? You're in the wrong pond. But I'll try to come up with something besides 'mammoth,'" he replied, moving purposefully toward the door, knuckles white from how tightly he grasped his cane.

He'd had it with the goddamn door, and considered digging a moat filled with piranhas around his place. His face relaxed however when he swung the door open and recognized take-out food from what he privately considered "their restaurant." Grabbing the box of fine cuisine from the deliveryman and palming him a couple of hundreds, he turned back to Cameron.

"Hungry?" he asked, bringing the stuff over to the kitchen table where she'd sat herself.

Wilson's bottle of wine was open and breathing and the Zinnias were arranged in a vase.

"Nostalgic?" she replied, noting that the food was from Café Spiletto, the place they'd gone to on their date.

"Don't be ridiculous," House cantankerously, recovering his edge and lying. "Wilson has a tab there, so the food was free, for us, anyway. Did you know that 'free' is Princeton's favorite four-letter word?"

"Every moment with you is an education," she shot him a fond look, "only sometimes the things you learn you may not want to know."

"Ooh. Deep." He held up the bottle of wine and raised his brows. "Want to get drunk and screw? I think that's what Wilson had in mind when he bought vino with an alcohol content of - see for yourself."

She skewered him with her eyes as she stood up and reached for the bottle. "Give me that." Walking over to the kitchen cabinet, she found a couple of long stem glasses, and poured some of the red in each before handing House his.

Placing the wine on the counter after whistling at its alcohol content, Cameron paused to admire the bouquet of orange and yellow blooms. "These are beautiful."

"Save your 'I'm grateful for what I receive speech' for Jimmy. Wilson's responsible for the wine and the flowers. He thought I needed his help to 'A' seduce you or 'B' date you or 'C' show you how I feel … about you."

House's eyes landed everywhere but on hers as he unpacked the fillet mignon and braised asparagus with roasted yams and dished portions onto dinner plates. And then the corners of his mouth turned up and he looked straight at her.

"If Wilson micromanaged my personal life the way he thinks he does, I'd be paying alimony to three ex-wives."

He handed Cameron a plate and cutlery, watching as she tilted her head at him with a smile and a shrug. She set her dinner and glass on the table as he piled food on his own plate.

"I've never made my feelings for you a secret. And Wilson had nothing to do with it. That was all you, oh ye of little faith." She reached out and touched his hand.

Her fingers burned and he itched with desire as if it was a rash. Her voice with its quiet cadence penetrated his reserve and snuck under his skin. He wanted to clasp her wrist in his paw and draw her up against him until she had no doubt as to his intentions, his feelings, his chemical reaction.

But standing between them was the specter of Robert Chase. House had made his peace with the dead husband, although he'd kill the bastard for beating him to her if the bastard wasn't already deceased. Chase, however, lived and breathed, mostly in House's dark thoughts.

His lean, long body rested against the counter as he attempted to exorcise the last of his demons – at least the ugly little bastards that lived in his head and stuck him with pitchforks chanting "you'll fuck it up; you'll fuck her up; she'll fuck you over."

"About Chase," he said, moving his hand out from under hers. "You … jumped him. Why?"

She took his plate and arranged it across from hers on the table, forming her words. "If you were me, and I liked you, what would you do?"

House raised his brows and wrinkled his nose as if he'd just gotten a whiff of Limburger. "Okay," he said, drawing out the last syllable. "I'd want you to notice, to be jealous. Would have been easier if you just jumped me instead of creating all that red tape."

He pulled her chair out for her, and when she was seated, limped around the table to his spot, raising a forkful of meat to his mouth.

Cameron stabbed at some sautéed yam and then cut into an asparagus spear. "So … you noticed. Might have been easier if you'd showed that you cared. Why are we talking about this now? You hate to talk about anything personal."

"Don't want any – oh, Wilson would call it 'baggage' lingering like a venereal disease," House responded, after finishing his bite and wiping his mouth with a napkin.

He raised his eyes to hers. His were the blue of beach glass worn by the sea. Hers were the gray-green of the water.

"I thought you liked mystery," Cameron commented, meeting his gaze. She resisted running her bare foot up under his pant leg.

"I like solving 'em, not dating 'em."

"What do you want from me, House?" She sipped her wine, and viewed him from the rim of the glass, unperturbed.

_Don't get me started on that._

"Answers to _my_ 20 questions." He pushed his chair back and put his fork down. "You fucked Chase as if it was an Olympic event. And yet you couldn't even bring yourself to touch me this morning when it was clear you wanted to hop on and ride, Sally, ride." He folded his arms across his chest, unintentionally showing off his biceps, then looked up as Cameron sighed audibly. His voice tinged with curiosity, he asked, "What held you back? I'm the guy who hired you because you look good in a lobby. Did you think I'd kick you out of my bed?"

In spite of herself, Cameron smiled at this. "I fear, therefore I am?" she said, shrugging and throwing up her hands. "Didn't want to be rejected. Again. You can be…" her gaze traveled over his bookcase, "as prickly as a cactus."

"Well, that's just lame," he shook his head in mock disgust.

"You're the one who said I only need you because you're damaged," she replied, a note of resentment crept into her voice.

House caught it and lobbed it back at her, tipping back his chair until it balanced on its two rear legs. "On our date, I tried to protect you. You're just not sure from what. And that's what scares you. That you might act on wanting to be with me, and find out that I'm someone you don't want to be with. Where would that leave you? You couldn't bear to leave me the way Stacy did. But with you, it would be worse. You'd stay, but you'd pity me and feel sorry for yourself."

He knew that he risked everything by these words that brought to life his greatest fear of starting a relationship with Cameron. But if he didn't voice it, it would lurk like Boo Radley between the two of them.

_And he wanted nothing between them. He wanted them naked._

She spoke softly, bringing her hand up to caress his shadowed cheek before letting it drop back down to the tabletop. "That's … pretzel logic, House. You're talking yourself into a cage. You … can't help trying to sabotage your own happiness."

The look in his blue eyes reflected a fear of what he hoped could be and a fear of what might not occur. But his fear filled her heart with tenderness; she had always known him to be human.

Still, he was House, and she had to answer him with some of her own pretzel logic.

Cameron held his gaze so that he could see the sincerity in her eyes as she spoke. "Remember how on our date, you said that I was interested in you because you were damaged? Well, maybe that's part of it. But, I wouldn't have asked you out if I didn't find you brilliant, funny, oddly moral, sexually attractive, and worthy of my love. But that's what really scares you," she replied, "that I'm someone you want to be with, and that you might have to act on it."

House heard these words and relaxed: _brilliant, funny, oddly moral, sexually attractive, and worthy of my love. _And he couldn't find fault with her reasoning.

_Fuck the fear._ He'd save it for his worst nightmare: being trapped in eternity with a roomful of clinic patients.

His hand moved to stroke his chin while his eyes stripped her naked. Pushing his plate aside, he got to his feet.

"Do you want more?"

He could have been talking about the food; he could have been talking about the two of them.

_I want more of you, _Cameron thought.

She rose from her chair, attempting to tuck stray hairs back into the hairclip. "Are you finished questioning me?"

"I have what I need," he replied as she fussed with her hair. "Oh for Christ's sake, let me." Instead of refilling their plates, House reached out and circled her neck with his hands until his fingers found the barrette. Unclasping it, her hair fell around her face and her lips parted.

"Reconsider me?" Idly his fingers trailed down the soft skin of her throat and rested on her bare shoulders as his eyes locked into hers.

At his touch, she shivered, breathing shallowly.

"Consider yourself reconsidered," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Still hungry?"

His voice had never sounded more like sex. It was almost as good as his mouth between her legs.

She could swear that his eyes were laughing at her; smile creases showed around his mouth.

Her hand moved to her abdomen. "I don't think I could eat anything."

"We could do candlelight and Marvin Gaye," House offered sarcastically. "I'm open-minded about the alternative medicine of sexual healing."

"Or we could move to the couch and watch Monster Trucks," Cameron suggested mercifully.

House placed his free hand on the small of her back, fingers finding a sweet patch of skin beneath her shirt, and guided her to the leather sofa where she had spent the previous night. Reluctantly he turned his attention to syncing the DVD, adjusting the volume with the remote before tossing his cane aside and sinking down next to his immunologist date.

The roar of revved motors drowned out Paganini's Caprices as Grave Digger went mano a mano with Bounty Hunter, and the two Monster trucks crushed a line of merely mortal cars.

Cameron raised a fist in the air as Grave Digger flattened a trailer. She grabbed House's arm. "Check out that cyclone!"

But House's mind wandered instead to the places he wanted his body to be, imagining the ways he could love her. He couldn't focus on the TV screen. Her face was like hypnosis.

Not even a car-eating robot could distract him from Cameron.

_The gentle curve of your cheekbones; the way your eyes change color…_

Her legs were slightly spread, her elbows on her thighs as she leaned forward cheering on Dennis Anderson. Her knee pressed against his left leg.

He was already cocked.

A flash of lightning blazed a path across the sky, an electric artery sending out veins and capillaries into the blackness outside.

Cameron grabbed the remote and hit pause, a Monster truck frozen in a wheelie on the screen.

She turned to House and found him with his cheek resting in one hand, staring at her. Raw desire smoldered in his eyes as they roamed over her face, her body.

In the background, Paganini's Caprices frolicked like waves on a choppy sea.

She switched off the TV as lightning crackled, silencing the stereo. The lights flickered and went out.

His voice edged into the darkness and she felt his hand on her thigh. "Cameron."

Her name on his lips was like foreplay. It held all the confidence that House exhibited daily at the hospital, but it simmered with possibility.

"You … want me." She grabbed his hand, tracing between the knuckles, running a thumb over his palm.

She heard a grin warm his voice as he replied, "You're a mistress of understatement."

"Can you … see me?" A rod of lightning lit his face for an instant.

"Like a blind man with a Braille map." He stood. "I'll be right back."

House felt his way relying on the brief flashes of lightning to guide him to his bedroom, where he grabbed Wilson's get lucky bag with the lubricant, Patron Saint Candles and silk scarf. Finding a packet of matches in a drawer, he lit St. Alejo and used it to navigate his way back to the living room.

Fire hazard be damned, he thought as he arranged the candles on top of the entertainment center, the piano, and the coffee table, lighting them as he moved around the room favoring his left leg. As an afterthought he placed a few on the wood floor just beyond the Oriental carpet.

When he turned back to Cameron she was standing with her arms at her sides, watching him. Light flickered over her countenance, loving the hollows of her face.

Flames lit his eyes, revealing shadows beneath them and the blaze behind the blue.

Lightning cracked the sky in two.

A hard rain pummeled the roof.

Cameron was aware of the snug fit of her blue jeans, the inseam tight against her clit. The sheer material of her top brushed against the skin of her stomach as she took a step towards the man she had loved for the past three years, shaking hair back off of her face.

Slowly, tentatively, she advanced on him as he stood his ground, head lowered, gaze lifted. With every move she made, she was conscious of the effect it had on House.

The look in his eye was bare, naked, lady.

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**Part Two of this chapter is almost ready to be posted. Sorry to make you wait. Comments are appreciated, especially if you like the direction this chapter takes...**


	15. Contact: Part Two

**Disclaimer: The characters presented here belong to a powers greater than me. **

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Only a patch of colorful carpet separated House and Cameron as rain hit the roof in fits and starts creating a helter skelter rhythm.

House stood rubbing his bad leg as a spasm of pain wrenched his muscles, and glanced up at her. Wildness stirred behind her smoky eyes and he imagined that this was what she looked like jacked up on ecstasy and ready to mount anything that moved.

Cameron fixated on his face. It meant everything to her. It was _dear_ to her: beard shadowing his jaw, eyes unbridled electricity, and mouth sexual and there for … _kissing, sucking, licking, biting._

The sight of him always spurred a pang in her stomach signaling fierce feelings: desperate love mixed with pain, desire, and hope.

_Electromagnetism is a force between us._

House stripped her with a look probing her secret places with his blues. Before he lays a hand on her he has already been inside.

_I can see who you are._

She ran her tongue over her lips like a gloss. The unconscious gesture was like waving a scarlet cloth at an agitated bull and House raked his hands through his hair.

Something shifts within House and he rearranges himself, allowing his heart to grow nearly as big as his cock – _but only when it comes to Cameron._ All others be damned. Long ago House locked his feelings in a jar. Now the lid explodes, reason recedes, and jackassery falls away leaving him open _to her_.

In another time and another place House would have kept his thoughts to himself but now was not the time to hold back, he knew, as words emerged from within him and entered the stratosphere like the growl of a wild animal.

"_You want to know how I feel about you?_ This _is how I feel_."

In contrast to the stridence of his voice, feelings played across his countenance like shadow puppets.

First his cane clattered to the floor and like a lion pouncing he closed the gap between them and then he was on her. Hauling her body violently against his, the satiny feel of material beneath his hands, he left Cameron no doubt about the extent of his arousal.

_See me  
Feel me  
Touch me  
Heal me_

There's a lot that he could say because after all House is a man who has been in love before and she knows that he is capable of loving a woman and he could say that _they fit_ – they did and he knew it – and yet all he can manage is a reference to their first kiss.

"I should frisk you for needles," he says, voice gravelly and low like a presence in the room, his breath brushing her ear before gripping the back of her head and kissing her hard on the mouth. The diffidence with which he kissed her in his office was replaced by need unleashed and the kind of confidence House displayed when he diagnosed and treated patients. His interest in her body was unequivocal.

The degree of his desire was indisputable. Cameron has seen it etched in the hard slant of his shaft beneath his jeans and now she felt his erection throbbing through denim, remembering the sight of it beneath the sheets in his bedroom that afternoon. She caught a subtle whiff of fabric softener from his t-shirt and barely perceptible a hint of aftershave lingered.

Thunder boomed like the climax of a fireworks display, shaking the sky with sound.

Just one taste of her lips and House has to come back for seconds, thirds – there will be no leftovers. He tastes wine, drinks her in, parting her mouth with his tongue and kissing her

deep  
hard  
hot  
again  
and  
again.

_Yes I need a little water of love._

Her mouth opened up for him, moved beneath his sweetly, urgently. Their kiss was so deep she lost herself in it, wondering how House between her legs could be more intimate than this. Slipping her hands beneath his black tee, Cameron ran her fingers over his vertebrae, marveling at the sheer reality of his body beneath her touch. Hooking her thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans, she pulled him even closer, swiping his lower lip with the tip of her tongue. _Sensation is a conduit to his cock._

_Beats heroin._

He felt her rounded rump beneath her skintight blue jeans as he squeezed, grinding her against his prick and nearly lifting Cameron off her feet. Molding her flesh against his as if she were clay, he claimed her as his. Moving her hair to the side he kissed a path along the soft skin of her neck, breathing in the faint scent of … he couldn't name it but it stirred him … _Cameron._

Only flames from the patron saint candles and flashes of spidery lightning broke the darkness of House's living room.

House returned to her face with his hands, eyes, and mouth again and again as if to reassure himself that it was really Cameron he was kissing, Cameron's soft skin he touched underneath her shirt, Cameron's chameleon eyes in which he floundered as he saw the reflection of flames flickering within them.

Cameron kept reaching up to stroke his face with an air of ownership and an awestruck countenance. Pressed tightly up against his chest, with bothersome clothing segregating their skin, she could not get close enough to the man she watched sleep earlier that day, as tenderness filled her heart and desire swept over her loins.

_This is it. There is nothing more, nothing less. We are connected,__like lovers from different lifetimes, who through a time warp find each other in the dark universe where black holes are now nearly passé. _

She has always wanted a man to take action, to go ahead and snake a hand between her legs while sitting side by side watching TV, to scatter buttons across a room as he tore the clothes off her body. And yes, to kiss her and fuck her as if she were a musical composition, _accelerando, expressivo, dolcissimo, appassionato, con intensita, crescendo._

House tuned in to her unspoken desires as though they were chords he had loved and memorized, and he played her like a piece he knew by heart, one on which he loved to improvise.

He grazed his knuckles purposefully against her clit, teasing her through her jeans. The fabric beneath his hands fueled him and he swiped his thumb up against her entrance and applied pressure.

Heat spread like wildfire between her legs. Cameron felt herself grow wet as she looked down watching House's hand moving between her thighs. All she wants is to say his name over and over again like an incantation. Except that she wants much more than that.

_I want to, I need to, I'd love to …_

"House." She settles for saying it once.

Tendrils clung to her forehead and he gently moved them aside cupping her jaw. And so he sought her mouth once more, pressing his against hers with short, sweet stabs of intimacy.

Claiming House's face she studied it as if it were a map, holding it as she kissed him back, sucking the tip of his tongue into her mouth, as he imagined her sucking his cock between her lips.

House covered her sex with his palm, rolling the ball of his hand over her mound with a righteous motion.

Cameron's stomach fluttered and her breath caught.

_This is basic biology but we have advanced chemistry..._

Her nipples stiffened, poking painfully against the lace of her black bra and through the thin fabric of her shirt, her clit pulsed insistently against the seam of her jeans.

_Fuck. _

House pulled away from her body just long enough to check in with her. He penetrated her eyes with an intense gaze, his pupils dilated. Fingering the lobes of her ears, he sees they're swollen. "You're … excited," he observed huskily as if the knowledge will make his prick burst through his pants.

_Touch me._

Like a mind reader, Cameron reached down tracing the outline of his cock with a finger as his erection swelled. House grew harder still as she applied pressure with her hand and touched the head of his shaft. Her pulse pounded between her legs as she felt the length and heft of his prick under her touch imagining what it would be like when he opened her up, pushed inside, began to thrust.

"You're hard," she whispered leaning forward and gently biting the skin of his neck below his ear before moving to suck on his lobe, troubling it with her teeth.

His erection nudged the snug front of his jeans.

"Cameron."

The sound of her name on his lips with his clipped inflection made her even wetter than she already was.

"Take off my pants," he ordered in a controlled yet agitated voice as if he had told her to get an MRI for a patient and he needed it yesterday. He followed the command with a meaningful look.

It was the imperative command delivered in that low down, gritty voice that drove her to grip his waistband and rip open the button fly, releasing his erection from its confines. Even at work it turned her on when he told her what to do, how to do it and when. She eased the jeans up and over his hard on and down over the sensitive tissue of his maimed thigh until he stood before her in boxers and the Replacements t-shirt.

Glancing down at the floor, his warm palms brushed her bare arms stroking her cool smooth skin. "Might as well look," he said wryly. "You must be curious."

_See me._

His eyes rose to meet hers, gauging her reaction.

"I'm a doctor. I had a pretty good idea of what your leg would look like." Still, Cameron squatted down and examined the scar tissue. "Looks like someone waged a war. It's pretty ravaged," she said running her fingers over the pockmarked flesh with a light touch while looking up and into his eyes. "But it's part of you and I … love it. I just don't love the pain it causes you."

House felt his heart twist within his chest at her words, her touch, and he bent over, pulled her to her feet and held her closely against him in the first real embrace he'd experienced since the night on the roof of the hospital when he had clasped Stacy to him one last time.

_Heal me._

She pulled away first, fueled by the certainty that it was time to get naked, and peeled off his shirt. "You don't need this," she declared authoritatively, dropping the garment on the floor.

"This is useless," House growled, untying the halter from the nape of her neck. When the top didn't fall from her bare skin fast enough for him, he pulled it over her head and tossed it in the direction of the couch immediately turning his attention to her pants. He popped the snap and unzipped to the sight of a bit of black lace underneath.

Her excitement mounted as she felt his fingers graze her silky skin as he yanked her jeans and lacy black panties over her slim hips so the clothes pooled at her ankles and she stepped out of them.

At sight of her white skin in the flickering candlelight, shadows pooling where the dark tangle of hair hid her sex, House reached down and touched himself, gripping the head of his cock – closing his eyes, and opening them again. Pure desire had the effect of softening his features and leaving them naked, his brows knitted together and eyes squeezed shut. The only time she had ever seen him look so enraptured was when she had caught him in his office listening to Beethoven's 3rd Eroica. House made a sound at the back of his throat, something between a groan and a growl.

She grasped his hand, dragging it between her legs so he could feel how wet she was, how ready she was for him. He reached out and he ran his fingertips over her mouth and when her lips still didn't part the way he wanted them to he said "Cameron, I love you" and she gaped at him – it never failed – and he stuck his fingers inside her mouth and she sucked them instinctively, twirling her tongue between each one.

With dampened fingers, House touched her nipples through the lace of her bra, rolling the pads of his thumbs over one stiff nib while cupping the swell of her breast. Looking at her face, he saw her eyes close as she concentrated – she felt like there was a live wire connecting her nipples to her clit. Grabbing her shoulders, he pushed her back into the cushions of the couch so she lay against the pillow that remained from when she'd spent the night.

Careful of his thigh, House kneeled on the floor for better access and lowered his mouth to the place where his hands had been. The tip of his tongue gently jabbed her nipple before he flattened it and circled the hardened flesh lazily, loving how Cameron squirmed and ran her fingers through her hair which was spread out like silk on the pillow, her face filled with the lust he'd seen when he'd caressed her cheek, sliced off her button, parted her shirt and blew into her naval using robotics during a hallucination.

"Date me." House-like, he bit off the two words while giving her a sideways glance. It wasn't a question; it was an order.

"Fuck me." Cameron-like, this was voiced quietly. Monosyllables seemed all they were capable of in terms of talk.

For an instant he hesitated.

_What if…but…oh, fuck it._

"You're sure you're ready for … this?" House queried. He didn't want her to have any regrets. "I don't want to crush you." 

"House, I've been ready for three years." She smiled reassuringly and reached into the gap of his boxer shorts as evidence.

"Bedroom." House said. Referring to catching her checking him out while he slept he added, "I think you remember where it is."

They rolled off the couch, Cameron grabbing a couple of the candles while House picked up the bag of stuff from Wilson.

"You first. Want to admire your backside," he said and watched the natural way her ass swayed as she preceded him through the darkened room. He loved how her inner thighs were slightly rounded ending in a dark, wild tangle between her legs, loved the dimple above her ass, and the way her hair brushed her naked back.

"What's this?" Cameron spied the package from Muriel's Intimate Apparel on House's bed and turned to him with a smile. "So the birthday gift thing wasn't just a ploy to get me into your bed?" She asked, picking up the box and touching the red ribbon.

"It was a ploy. Unwrap it, and do it fast."

_Mount Gregory's about to blow. Can't wait much longer._

House came up behind her and unhooked her bra as she ripped off the paper. Pulling her roughly back against him, he cupped the curves of her breasts, ran his hands over them, down across the sensitive skin of her abdomen finally making his way to her nest where he positioned his whole palm over her vulva and clit.

In response to his touch a moan escaped her as the box fell open and she lifted out the same white lacy negligee she had admired while running earlier in the evening.

House turned her around so he could see her reaction to his gift. As if for approval, he watched her face as she held the material against her naked body. Cameron looked up at him wonderingly.

"It's perfect. It's me." She kissed him hard on the mouth, gripping his face in her hands, the garment pressed between them. "Let's save it for later."

_Hell to the yeah on that._

Leaning over and giving him a view of her sex from an exciting angle, Cameron set the box carefully on the floor, and then crawled up on the bed, looking at him.

Before joining her, he feasted his eyes on a sight he'd waited to see for what seemed like eternity: the slight form of Cameron lying back with her legs propped up and her arms thrown back behind her head, hair spilling across a pillow. How her face could look so sensual and still hold its innate goodness perplexed him.

_Not in the mood for puzzles._

A thought appeared in his head like a psychotic episode but he was so struck with it he was for a moment paralyzed from climbing up next to Cameron and fucking her the way he wanted it, needed it, had to have it.

_He hadn't even been inside her yet and already he pictured the way her body would look pregnant with his child – their child. He saw it as if it were a vision. Her nipples would be dark and swollen, the swell of her belly like the slope of a dune, his hands proprietarily circling her distended tummy from behind, her body fitting his perfectly. It was the only way he could imagine her looking more beautiful then she did now, spread out on his bed. _

Instead of wilting his erection, it only made him harder.

"Lobby art doesn't begin to describe you," he found himself saying out loud as he stood by the bed in his boxers, his erection jutting against the thin cloth with an insistence that needed to be addressed.

House grunted as Cameron leaned forward and pulled his boxers up and over his erection. His cock sprang free and it was even more beautiful than she'd imagined, straight and full, thick and long with a shapely, massive head. She squeezed her legs together to chastise her clit, unconsciously tilting her pelvis up, inviting him to explore it, imploring him to touch her there.

"House, come here …"

Before she could finish her sentence he was on the bed, wincing as he compensated for his handicap, navigating a suitable position where he could do all the things he wanted to do to Cameron.

"Careful. Your leg," Cameron worried aloud, hating the idea of him in pain – then again with House pain was a constant companion.

"_My_ leg. I'll abuse it as I see fit," he replied.

In a surprisingly agile move for a gimp House pushed her down on the mattress and parted her legs with his left thigh, and when that wasn't wide enough for him he grasped her knees and spread them open with his hands.

_She unclenched for me._

House crawled on hands and knees across the mattress, bottom lip between his teeth. Tugging her hips closer to his face, he got down between her toned thighs and stuck his fingers in his mouth wetting them and parted the folds of her secret skin. Her sex looked like a perfect oyster. House licked from her vulva to her clit, stiffening his tongue like a rod and plunging inside her, moving against the soft membrane otherwise known as the g-spot with a carnal knowledge.

He heard Cameron groan and felt her shift sexily beneath him, pushing against his mouth. Resting his weight on his left hip, House flattened his tongue and pressed it gently against her bud, moving in slow, feather-light circles as she opened up for him.

The rasp of his tongue moving against her delicacy sent warmth rushing through her body until even her toes tingled.

_This time it is really you, your tongue warm and wet and in me … on me … mmm … around and around … oh yes there like that  
_

He loved the feel of her tiny erect nub rolling underneath the flat part of his tongue and her soft wetness as he plunged it inside her.

She grew wetter against his hand, his mouth.

Raw sexuality altered his face and the sponge of his tongue flirted with her clit, nudging through her folds, gently jabbing and slowly circling until she cried out and he increased his speed.

Cameron felt his whole mouth open, covering her vulva and kissing deep. His scruff brushing against her sensitive skin drove her half crazy as sweetness ebbed up from the core of her, spreading in seismic waves of sensation.

"House," she moaned, invoking his name as if he was the Lord. "House. _House_."

_Oh, Christ, not yet. _

House pulled away just before Cameron plunged over the edge into oblivion to watch her face transfixed. She opened her eyes to the sight of his face, mouth wet with her juices. He looked like a bewhiskered satyr, naked and dangerously predatory.

"Ungh. Good." She pronounced a verdict, closing her eyes and then opening them again.

"Good," he repeated with inflection reaching past her for the bottle of lubricant and massaging some between his hands. He sat up so he was on his knees on the bed and watched Cameron watch him stack fist over fist and bring them down forcefully over his erection. He stroked himself a few times urgently.

_Always think of you when I do this._

As her pupils dilated, the phantom smile appeared, warming his eyes. Cameron propped herself up and reached out to touch his hard rod, but House pushed her back down on the bed. "Later," he said.

He reached for condoms on the nightstand but she caught his hand to stop him. He questioned her with a look.

"I want to know it's you. I want to feel … you." She threw up her hands, knowing that she had a reputation for playing it safe, with a few notable exceptions.

"I can't guarantee I'm clean," he told her. "I do hookers."

Cameron's voice dropped to a near whisper. "If you're a disease, I already caught it and there's no cure."

_Crush me._

She drew him down to her, eager to feel the length of his body on top of hers. He hovered over her, his cock at the ready. Her hand went between her legs to feel her wetness and House looked down at her face and licked her from his bottom lip. Candlelight reflected in his eyes. _This_ was the House who had promised he'd never crush her, the House who would have kept on kissing her if she hadn't sprung a needle on him.

Ignoring the ache in his leg because the ache in his groin was more pressing, House clutched his thick penis and pressed it against her entrance, moving it back and forth titillating her clitoris and nudging her labia apart with its head.

_I want to be on her. In her. Want to cover her. Hurts. Worth it. _

He split her with his cock, pushing into the sweet wet warmth, amazed at the reality of plunging into 98.6 degrees of body heat, slayed by the way she opened up to make room for him while also constricting around him like a vice.

Soft animal sounds emerged from Cameron as she felt him fill her: his cock grew within her like new life.

His erection expanded within her softness as he moved inside her, exploring her slowly at first as he heard her sigh his name.

_Feel me._

"You make it so hard," he told her what she already knew, knowing she wanted to hear it from him anyway. "I thought I was easy," she replied, grasping the back of his head and pulling his mouth to hers until their tongues tangled. She was left speechless as he pulled almost all of his length from her, poised with just his head inside of her so he stimulated the soft front part of her entrance. He heard her breathing shift and grow ragged. With one deep thrust he pushed all the way back in, rotating the angle of his cock and driving into her.

_You move me … you fill me … you in me_

Cameron's hands stroked his back, slid down over his muscular buttocks, dragging him closer, urging him deeper, faster, harder. The feeling of her pelvis beneath him excited House, nearly pushed him over the edge as he rocked into her, and when her hips posted up to meet his, he groaned "Al."

_To me she's either Cameron or Al. _

House varied his movements so his cock hit her g-spot and his skin and pubic hair brushed against her clit with every thrust. Pushing up against him Cameron gasped as she felt sweet warmth spread once more through her clit and she knew she was close as she bloomed beneath him, uncurling like the petals of a flower.

"House. Just … more …"

The fucking felt to Cameron like he was kissing her between her legs with his cock, so intimate, hot, raw, and urgent was House's movement. She locked her legs up around his back. Looking down between them to where their flesh met pushed her over the edge. Sweet sensation radiated from her core spreading deliciously so she jerked beneath House and cried out as she came violently, grabbing his hair with one hand, the other hand gripping the sheets.

"Turn over and take me with you," she gasped, sensing that despite his efforts to shift his weight onto his upper body and left leg, the damaged right leg was tiring.

They pivoted on the bed so Cameron straddled him. Just like in his dreams, her breasts were dark and swollen, nipples peaked and stiff. Mahogany hair swept down across his chest and around his face and she looked like a wild child, flushed from their coupling.

House gripped her hips, his eyes blazing as the candles burned down. He called upon Christ as she writhed against him and he felt the pressure begin to build like a dam about to burst at the base of his cock. Heat moved up as he shifted inside her and felt her squeeze his erection with a confidence that almost made him come on the spot. Moving his pelvis to meet hers, he found he could go deeper and a surge of hot wetness surrounded him.

Watching his face, Cameron could tell he was close. She licked her thumbs and slid them over his nipples, matching his thrusts.

"Fuck." House bit his lower lip. "Cameron," he uttered. He said her name again. This time it was a shout.

The warmth shot up his shaft to his tip and he felt himself expand even more as waves of pleasure swept the length of his erection until he couldn't wait any longer and he let go, spurting into her, his brain exploding. He sank down against her, kissing her mindlessly, his head numb.

They clung damply to each other breathing hard with House still inside her.

"Thanks," Cameron said after a moment, enjoying the afterglow of sex. She touched his face, his mouth, while his eyes searched hers, making sure she wasn't hurt.

_This is House._

Her breath tickled his ear and he ran his hands under her long hair and up over the damp skin of her back possessively.

"For what?"

_The sex? I'll fuck you for free anytime anyplace anyhow anywhere._

"For my birthday gift. I love it."

* * *

**A/N: This chapter is for Kymba. Thanks to athousandsmiles and sharp2799 who stepped up and read drafts of this, and thanks to katej and Angela Burrows for encouragement. This is my first try at a sex scene, and since it was for these beloved characters, I tried hard to write it how I saw it. More chapters are on the way.**


	16. Feels Like Rain

**Disclaimer: **_Not mine.  
_

**Beta: **Katej

**This chapter is for: **Heather Coffey and Christina, who both deserve to have a chapter dedicated to them.

* * *

****

**_Part I - Him_**

Was it just last night that House sat hunched in his office, his leg in agony, his only companion a stabbing pain and the Led Zeppelin from his iPod?

_Squeeze my lemon baby until the juice runs down my leg. _

Something like that.

House had wanted rock that was hard enough to pummel his brain into mush, and since he was nothing if not contrary, music that made him feel alive. It hadn't worked on either count, and he might have taken an axe to his own leg if she hadn't shown up.

_He wants her._

And now that he's had her. He wants her again. _And again._

In and out. In and out.

House breathes. Prone on the bed, he just breathes; his head numb, his heart rate like Steve McQueen's, his eyes squeezed shut from – _oh, fuck, what an eruption_ – her name on his lips like a bit of bread from a priest at communion.

This is my body which is given for you … 

Her body.

Freely given.

_Ask and you shall receive. Seek and you shall find._

She is great, and oh, is she good.

Under her small palms his chest rises and falls. Rises and falls.

It's as if he got drunk, blacked out, and upon regaining cognition, found himself in this preposterous position, a place he never really believed he could be: pinned beneath the sinuous body of Allison Cameron.

She straddles him, his cock still inside her. Even after a monstrous orgasm, his erection seems reluctant to soften.

It is Cameron, isn't it? Because even when he's had hookers, it's Cameron he fucks.

In his dreams he fucks her, too.

Sometimes it's hot summer afternoon love, languorous love, Louisiana love, blackstrap molasses love, plantation love and, afterwards, Mint Juleps on the big old porch, side by side, swaying on the swing in the shade of a Catalpa tree, she in a white sundress, he in a …

The scenarios he has conjured up are endless and they range from pornographic to tender …

She sucks his hard, big prick into her mouth, flicking her tongue underneath his head, twirling around it, sucking up and down faster and faster, deeper and tighter and – oh yeah, he's tied to a tree, and she's bound his mouth with a cloth.

In his sleep, he's pretty sure he groans a lot.

_Everybody had a wet dream. _

And then there were poppies. Soft-focus lens fields of them. A blue blanket anchored by a picnic basket against the sea of red flowers. Cameron pulls him down and he lays his head on her midriff. Okay, so she's wearing a corset and bustier beneath a Portrait of A Lady dress that trails the ground. But the only skin he's allowed to see is her naked wrist once he has unfastened the single mother of pearl button.

_Fuck me_, House thinks. Wilson can never know his fantasy life.

Opening his eyes, House appraised the reality of the situation.

_How the hell did I end up with _her_ on top of me_? House squinted at Cameron's face above him skeptically, surveying the open page of her lovely features. Another hallucination? Could be. What was the shelf life on Ketamine? House wouldn't mind extending a few of the hallucinations he'd experienced after he'd been shot. Cameron at his bedside, the soft glow of caring on her face – or maybe it was love. She'd looked like the Holy Virgin, and there was nothing like that look to make him want to slam into her. To sully her sweetly.

_Or maybe it was love. _

Wasn't anything possible to a man like him, a man who took acid to kill the pain of a self-inflicted migraine, a man who had faked cancer, a man who saw dead people?

Or did he?

House wasn't clear on that part.

He had said it before and he'd say it again: He was _complicated_.

Then again, this sylph hovering above him like an apparition was Cameron without a doubt.

_She's the real thing. _

"Cameron?"

There was no harm in making sure that she was flesh and blood. House wrapped his arms around her back, felt vertebrae, slid hands up and down her naked, silky skin, and gripped her closer.

"A minute ago you were shouting my name," she reminded him, smiling down into his face.

_**Part II - Her**_

Dark, damp tendrils clung to her flushed face and her hands rested on House's naked chest as she gazed down at him. Gray-flecked brown hair stuck up in places against the backdrop of the pillow and those eyes (of _the bluest eye_ variety) stared back into hers. House wore a rare vulnerable look, post-sex, Cameron mused.

Like, _how could anything this good be meant for me_?

For so long, she had imagined him inside her, had visualized what would lead up to the moment:

_Clothes rustling, the heat of their bodies, eyes intent, hands determined, mouths greedy, buttons undone, his shirt pushed off of his shoulders and slipping down his bare torso, his chest and belly exposed, the visible bulge in the front of his pants, the snap of his jeans open, her fingers poised at the zipper._

Now, after the love they had made, she hesitated to climb off him, reluctant to separate their bodies.

But physically detaching from House was the only way to be with him all over again.

Already, she imagines a next time, and it seems so real in her overactive mind, that Cameron feels his hands on her shoulders, pushing her up against a tree, her head falling back as he looms over her, his erect cock jutting against her abdomen. House pins her hands behind her back, parts her legs with his knee, and yanks her yoga pants down around her ankles. The rough bark of the tree bites into her buttocks as House slides off her purple thong, his knuckles grazing her naked hip. Under her t-shirt, she feels the warmth of his hands brush her stomach as he pulls the material over her head. And then he kneels between her legs, mouth pressed against her clit.

A flick of the tongue.

A lazy, sucking kind of kiss.

_I want you all over again._

Not for the first time, Cameron wanted to go sci-fi, to freeze time. If only her life came equipped with a remote control and she could hit pause or, even better, rewind to the moment when House had first entered her and slowly pushed his length between her legs, a sweet invasion. Far from feeling alien, his body felt as if it belonged to her. She had closed herself around him, savoring the scene, shaking off a sense of disbelief and the urge to rub her eyes to make sure she wasn't dreaming.

_This was_ _House_.

He was poised at her entrance, nudging it with his erection, asking permission with his eyes before he parted her. But once she'd nodded her ascent, _yes, now, _House moved inside her with an assurance that shook her, it was so sexy. He _filled_ her. How many times had she imagined House inside her or considered what it would be like to touch him? Cameron gave up on the math. If she did a Jell-O shot each time she contemplated what it would be like to be with House, she'd be a drunk by now. Cameron amused herself with the thought.

_**Part III - Them**_

"You don't look … unhappy." His eyes scanned hers, resting on her upturned mouth with a suspicious look. He was aware of her palms spread on his chest, her thighs against his hips, and his cock still inside her.

Wherever their bodies touched, House was aware of it.

"Last time I checked, happiness wasn't a crime, House."

He reached up and touched the tips of her breasts. His thumb grazed her nipple. "When was the last time you checked? Because handcuffs can be fun and if anyone deserves to be frisked, it's you. Tritter sent me a pair after the trial. To remind me to walk the line."

"I … assume it didn't work." House walking the line? Not even June Carter Cash herself could have tamed him, Cameron thought with a smile. If she didn't climb off him soon, he'd accuse her of crushing him.

"You tell me," House ran his tongue over his lower lip. "Depends on the line and how fine it is, and what's on either side of it."

With a sigh, she rolled off House and onto her side, propping her head in one hand and smiling at him reassuringly while watching the rise and fall of his chest, admiring the musculature of his pecs and his nipples still wet from her mouth.

"Guess I better keep an oxygen mask by the bed from now on." House worked to calm his breathing. His erection had flagged, but the way she was looking at him could easily stir him again.

"It couldn't hurt to keep a defibrillator on hand either," Cameron added. _Since my heart stops whenever you look at me_, she thought to herself.

_From now on. _ So this really was the beginning.

His hand slowly stroked the curve between her hips and her rib cage.

Like a refugee allowed to keep only one valuable, Cameron held onto House's hand, turning it over and admiring the palm, linking her small thin fingers in his long elegant ones, drawing it up to cup her face.

To lie next to him and not have a part of her touching him would be sacrilege.

"How often have you thought of us … like this?" Cameron asked.

House was silent as his eyes found hers in the dim bedroom. A candle flickered in his peripheral vision.

Post-sex intimacy.

With hookers, he'd allowed no talking, and he'd never kissed one on the mouth. Although he didn't know it, he viewed hooker sex the same way Cameron viewed her trysts with Chase. A distraction that left him sick of himself. Nauseated. Defeated. Lonely. Last time he'd had pillow talk was with Stacy. He was out of practice.

"If I took a Vicodin every time I thought of nailing you, I'd be dead from an overdose. Next question," he spoke abruptly. House felt Cameron's slender foot find his in the dark, caressing it with her smooth sole. He rubbed hers with his, responding to her overture.

"You want to date me?" Cameron harkened back to the monosyllabic question House had asked her during their foreplay. What did "date" mean anyway, where House was concerned, she wondered.

"You _could_ move in, but that really killed the sex for me and Wilson. Put a damper on all those sexually charged little moments between us. That's why I kicked him out."

House was a little bit startled by the spasms of laughter that erupted out of Cameron. His hand moved to her rump, so round and firm, skin perfect.

Sexually charged … 

Getting shot was no picnic, but House wouldn't have missed the hallucinations he'd had of Cameron walking beside him in the hospital hallway, worrying that he'd pull out his stitches. He had challenged her to stop him – to physically stop him, and when she'd hesitated, he had theorized out loud for her benefit: "You can't, because that would involve touching me and then things would get so sexually charged…"

Cameron's voice interrupted his reverie.

"So … you do want to date me," Cameron remarked, once she'd regained control of herself. If House kept his hands on her ass for the rest of her life, she'd die happy.

"And you. You want to … _fuck_ me. That was you, right? You said that?" House gently tugged on a strand of her hair.

"Said it and did it." Cameron allowed a small sexy smile to ever so slowly emerge. She shifted her attention from his hands to his arms, tracing the slope of his biceps, touching the inside of his wrist. "You already knew I wanted a date. To date you. You already knew I liked you."

"You thought I might have missed the cues," he deduced.

Had he known how much she'd wanted him? House knew there'd always been something between them. He just never dared to hope it would be so strong.

"It seemed possible. Unlikely for a world renowned diagnostician," Cameron teased, "but possible."

"Okay … I'll fuck you if you'll date me. Deal?" House regarded her, sitting up a little in the bed. It smelled like their sex. Heady.

"It's a win-win. Kiss me?"

_Or get dressed, so I can undress you again, _Cameron thought.

"Done." House rolled her over and pinned her to the bed beneath him, kissing along her jaw and brushing his mouth against hers.

"What did it feel like … for you?" Cameron asked, when she was able to talk.

House shifted onto his side and propped himself up on an elbow, his face resting in his palm. "Should have guessed you'd be inquisitive. You excel at curiosity and caring."

"How did it feel?" Cameron persisted.

"My orgasm? Being inside you? The Weitz brothers were onto something with that scene in 'American Pie,'" he said after a moment of contemplation.

There was no way he could ever translate loving Cameron, physically loving her, into words. The intimacy stunned him silent. All he could say was that with her, fucking felt like kissing. And kissing felt like fucking.

Could he say that out loud without gagging? House wasn't sure.

"I was too busy studying to see it," she admitted of the movie, still loving the feel of House's feet against hers.

"Some consider it a classic."

"Sure. Probably the same people who watch the World Wrestling Federation and Tivo 'General Hospital,'" she said with a laugh. "I'm more of a 'Fried Green Tomatoes' girl."

As if addressing an audience off to the side of a stage, House rolled his eyes. "That is so Lifetime. Lesbians, southerners, Mary-Louise Parker, and Kathy Bates equal crap. We're so not having sex again."

Regarding him from lowered lashes, Cameron walked her fingers down his chest, belly, and lower still until they reached his spent penis. There she rubbed her thumb thoughtfully over its tip. "Want to bet?" she asked as she felt him begin to harden and stir.

For once, he didn't.

"Okay. So we're having sex again, someday." Reluctantly, House grasped her hand, holding his over hers to still her movements. "Imagine sticking your finger in a hot slice of apple pie. Entering you is like that. But that's a tired metaphor, even if you're not familiar with it."

House reached out to push a strand of hair out of her face and trailed a thumb over her cheek continuing down the soft skin of her neck and fingering the seductive hollow of her throat.

"Stacy and I used to scuba," he said with a sidelong glance at Cameron to gauge her reaction to the use of his ex-girlfriend's name. Her face remained open, inquisitive, unperturbed. "Well, I dove and Stacy hung out in the boat with the Dominican instructor. She never could breath underwater. Rising to the surface after a dive is a tricky business, even when you know what you're doing, and I was … good … at it."

"How good were you? If you and, say, God competed, who would win?" Cameron smirked as she said it, riffing off House's longtime competition with the Creator of the Universe and making a joke at her own, atheist's expense.

"You know my feelings about who's the best. Up to you to decide for yourself. But don't interrupt my metaphor," he told her.

"With you," he paused. "Inside you, it's deep. Warm. Wet. With you, orgasm is like surfacing. There's the anticipation, the build up as you move upward surrounded by tons of water pressure, and you're waiting, waiting for that moment where you'll break the surface and you can relax, float, breath properly again."

When Cameron just looks at him, House shrugs. "You'll never be satisfied. It's one of those questions that keep us separate. You feel what you feel. And I," once more House hesitated. "I feel. I feel what I feel."

Just then the lights blinked and came on. The music of Paganini wafted into the bedroom from the stereo. Rain still drove into the windows, slammed against the roof, but the electrical storm was over.

House sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. From a bedpost, he retrieved the white negligee, his birthday gift to Cameron, and the ploy to get him laid.

To get him loved.

"Put it on." It was an imperative, like, do a tox screen.

Cameron hopped off the bed and took the lacy garment from his hands. She stood in front of him and raised her arms above her head so he could admire her firm, high breasts and taut belly.

"Help me," she demanded in return, like, do it yourself.

House grabbed the hem and pulled the intimate apparel over her head, his hands running all the way down over her naked arms in the process.

She stepped back and took a turn around the room, just walking. No theatrics. Cameron didn't need to perform to turn House on.

Beneath the thin fabric, House saw her the dark tangle at her apex, her hard nipples poking against the cloth. If he stood, he thought he'd grow dizzy.

"I have something for you, too," Cameron spoke, moving over to him and standing between his legs. His hands went for her long neck, cupped her jaw, and he pulled her closer for a kiss.

She took his hand. "Come with me."

As he reached for his boxer briefs, she swatted them away. "Unnecessary."

His arm snaked around her shoulders and he leaned on her as she led him out into the living room. Finding her tote, she reached inside, pulling out a small square package.

"House. I want to dance. With you." She handed him the gift, and he looked at her as if to confirm it really was for him.

Slowly, House unwrapped it and the paper fell away, revealing a forty-five of the one song he had told her he would dance to. Buddy Guy. "Feels Like Rain."

"You said it was the only song you'd dance to, when we were walking to Tiffany's yesterday," Cameron reminded him, although he didn't require the memory prompt.

The start of a smile brought the laugh creases to the sides of his mouth. "You're going to hold me to it. Do you tape our conversations like a vixen Nixon?"

"I'm going to hold you to it. And you're going to hold me. Trust me, House. You'll like … it."

"Okay …" House carefully placed the record on his turntable and adjusted the needle. The slow bluesy music? John Hiatt's lyrics sung in Buddy's dark deep bass? It hit him where it always did.

Between the legs.

_Down here the river meets the sea  
And in the sticky heat  
I feel you open up to me  
Love comes out of nowhere baby,  
Just like a hurricane  
And it feels like rain_

Cameron takes him by the hand, leads him into the middle of the room and places his hands, his arms, around her tiny waist. Her own slender arms circle House's neck.

Her breasts pressed to his naked chest.

Nudity in her eyes.

_I want you all over again. _

His prick comes to life, nudging up against the gossamer of the negligee. As House pulls her closer, he pushes his hardness right up against her might-as-well-be-naked body.

All the while, Buddy Guy tells it like it is – or the way it always should be.

_Just lie here in my arms and let it wash away the pain…  
And it feels like rain._

It feels like rain.

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**Beta: **The lovely Katej, who is also responsible for my brand new LJ design. Come and see it.**  
**

**A/N: **Patient readers, thanks to all of you for being the best readers I could possibly imagine having. Sorry for the long wait between updates. I've been working on a new story, a babyfic that is additionally a post-ep to "Informed Consent" from S3. It's called "Where You'll Find Me." I hope you check it out and that you like it. As always, thanks for reading. Comments are appreciated. ** _Blueheronz_**


	17. The Things He Couldn't Say

A/N: As usual, thanks to Kate J for being my muse in so many ways. Thanks to Niicelaady for serving as my beta on this chapter. This chapter is dedicated to three awesome readers who have championed my writing for a long time: Houserocks1, HouseCam63, and SilvaK, thanks for always commenting and encouraging me.

Thanks as well to all the new readers who have taken a moment to comment. I'd love to hear from other new readers and from those who have invested in this story from the beginning. Blue button, bottom of page.

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Cameron woke as the wind blew smatterings of rain through the window screen and cool morning air chilled her naked frame. The only toasty part of her anatomy was her backside, where House curled around her in sleep. His strong arms circled her, holding her body close to his beneath the thin cotton sheet.

(When had that happened? Her last memory was lying on her back in the bed next to him, their shoulders touching, after making love for a second time. She had reached for his hand entwining her fingers in his as they lay in the darkness, utterly spent.)

She felt the muscular length of him and the latent power of his limbs – felt the rhythm of his breathing, the warmth of air brushing her hair as he exhaled. As she shifted a little in the bed, his hand moved, touching the soft skin of her belly and tangling in the dark nest between her legs.

Still he slept.

With great care, she turned so that she faced him and, driven by the need to absorb his heat, she tucked her body into his like a puzzle piece, finding a perfect fit. In his arms she grew warm and sleepy like a kitten and drifted off again.

In her dream, he wore his tux but had taken off the coat so the muscles of his chest were notable beneath the dress shirt.

There was something about a man in a crisp white dress shirt, a freshly pressed button-down shirt, that made her insides curl with desire. She was dressed in a white cloud that rose around her body and wrapped it up like an embrace, but he didn't seem to see her. He leaned against the hallway outside his office at the hospital, his hand at his throat as he tugged off the black tie and stuffed it into his trousers pocket. Fingering the buttons of the shirt, he loosed a few of them until she could see his Adam's apple and the hollow underneath it. In an unconscious gesture, he moved his hand over his breast as her breath caught in her throat. She wanted to feel the expensive cotton beneath her fingertips and the warmth of his flesh beneath the expensive cotton. Drifting like mist in his direction, she tried to touch him but her body dissolved.

For a second time she awoke, remembering the way his jaw had dropped when he saw her in her red dress the night of the hospital fundraiser. What he couldn't know was the effort it took her to keep her hands clenched at her sides so she wouldn't reach out and touch his chest in that crisp white dress shirt.

The gray patch of sky visible through the curtains signaled morning as clearly as the red digits of the alarm clock, but she was reluctant to start a new day when the previous 24 hours had given her more than she ever thought she'd receive from House. Irrefutable proof that he wasn't indifferent to her existence.

A palpable ache made a home between her thighs, reminding Cameron that she'd been properly fucked, and by whom. The second time, they hadn't made it back to bed. Buddy Guy's silky voice and her body visible beneath the see-through teddy had been more than enough to thicken House's erection. A few seconds into slow dancing was all the sentiment House could take before he needed to claim her again, damning tenderness out of hand and pushing her up against the back of the couch with his hard on insistent against her midriff.

She smiled against his shoulder at the memory.

He'd held so much of himself back from her for so long, and last night she had felt the power of his feelings spill out of him and into her. The things he couldn't say flickered in his eyes. The things he couldn't say she felt in the way he touched her with an air of ownership, parted her as if he were her first.

Soon he would wake and there was still a tiny part of her that feared he'd drop-kick her from his bed, claiming that he'd blacked out and that she'd taken advantage of him.

But that was nonsense.

Her real fear was that if she stayed, she'd never leave. They'd end up moving in together after one night of admittedly off-the-chart sex. That's what had happened with Stacy. It had worked for the two of them, but then again, they'd lived together for five years and never married or made any steps toward having children.

As for herself and House, Cameron feared that the sexual tension that crackled between them would soon evaporate as their relationship became mundane and he would tire of her. If she didn't walk out the door, House would never have the chance to ask her on a date, to actively choose a relationship on his terms. If he were ever going to date her – and he claimed he wanted to – she'd have to go home and give him time to ask her on a date.

Slipping out from under House's arm, Cameron slid from the bed and went in search of her clothes. She found her jeans crumpled on the floor and shimmied into them. A cursory search for her bra turned up nothing so she appropriated a green button-down from House's closet and nearly drowned in it. Wearing it made her feel as if she belonged to him. The soft cotton brushed her bare, sensitive skin.

She perched on the edge of the bed, looking down at House as he slept. He had rolled over onto his back. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she reached out and lightly stroked his scruffy cheekbone with her thumb, and then traced his bottom lip, remembering the way he tasted, the intoxicating smell of alcohol on his breath and the heat of his mouth on hers. The blanket covered his legs, but the rest of him was naked and in full view.

None of the indignities of sleep marred House's face. His mouth didn't gape, there was no drool, crud hadn't formed in the corners of his eyes, and he didn't even snore. The corners of her mouth lifted. Gently, she laid a hand over his left breast and felt his heart thumping. The sight of his throat and the hollow beneath it was better than any fine art she could buy at a gallery, and she wished she had her cameras so she could index each part of his body in color. In black and white. The scar on his neck where he'd been shot stood out in ruddy contrast to the rest of his skin and she touched in lightly, and then pulled the blanket up to cover his strong shoulders. The smell of their sex wafted up from the bed like an aphrodisiac.

He rolled over again, flinging an arm out and nearly clocking her so she walked out and into the living room to revisit the historical landmarks of the night before.

In the living room, bits of wax stuck to the floor from those Patron Saints candles. Now that she was thinking straight, the candles made her laugh. What had possessed House to use them? Most people kept votives around in case of a power loss, but then, that was House. He wasn't like other people.

The remnants of their dinner remained on the plates. Cameron set about cleaning up. She studied the bag that their food had come in with its Cafe Spoletto insignia and shook her head at the memory of their first date.

If House had thought that his pointed analysis of her, his lame efforts to tell her what it was that made her tick would crush her, he had been wrong. At her apartment, later on the night of that ill- fated date, she'd carefully unpinned the corsage and disassembled its blooms, tying the stems with a string, and hanging the flowers to dry in a corner of her bedroom. There they remained, reminding her that even House felt something like sentiment.

Even House let his guard down … sometimes. With Wilson. With her, she realized, the memory still sharp of ministering to his self-inflicted cuts when Cuddy restricted his Vicodin use. She had cleaned the razor-thin cuts, checking her impulse to kiss the wounds and taste his blood on her tongue.

A cough came from the bedroom, once, twice, and then it was quiet.

It was time to go, before he awoke and wanted her again. If he looked at her, she'd be immobile. She wouldn't be able to walk out the door.

She couldn't just leave without a note. Not after Stacy.

For a moment she stared at the blank sheet of paper, the pen poised in her hand. He would never be "Greg" to her, but with the memory of his skin beneath her fingertips and the ache that lingered sweetly between her legs, could she still think of him as "House?" That name conjured up the taskmaster who was always on her and at her, demanding that she look at diagnosing diseases in ways that to her remained unorthodox. The name brought to mind the teacher who pushed her to look outside conventional medicine for answers to problems that were often found in the secrets people kept from one another.

This was House. A man who kept his distance from people, but to whom solving medical mysteries was deeply personal. Never mind whether or not he knew their patients' names. If he could figure out their fatal flaw, their Achilles' heel, what point of pride or source of shame lurked behind what they revealed in their medical histories, he could usually solve their case. House was House. He was her one forbidden drug; she'd been sure if she touched him she'd sustain third-degree burns. He was the one who spilled whatever he couldn't say in lingering looks. What mattered passed between them, from eye to eye.

Finally, she scrawled the initial _G._ on the page. And then it occurred to her. House's initials spelled 'GH.' As in his favorite soap. How poetic was that?

_G. House _

_Thank you. For dinner. You don't need or want the thanks, I know. But as you know, it means something to me. (Yes, I can see your eyes rolling. I'm that good). I hate sports metaphors, but - about dating? The ball is in your court. You know where to find me._

_ A. Cameron_

On her way to her car, she paused to admire the maple tree. Its little leaves were curled up inside their buds, trying to keep warm in the cold rain. Any day now, they'd cut loose, and the cycle of life would continue in the shoots of green. In New Jersey, spring settled in slowly, and she pictured the perennials shriveling back into the warmth of their bulbs beneath the earth. Was it just yesterday that she and House had walked in the sunshine to Tiffany's for coffee and their game of 20 Questions? It seemed as if years had passed since then.

Arriving at her place felt like a letdown. Cameron stepped inside, allowing the heavy door to swing shut behind her. Dropping her tote, she leaned back, surveying the apartment critically, the way a stranger might.

An antiseptic quality characterized the living room with its dutifully neutral paint job and humdrum furnishings that, she saw, lacked imagination. The place was tidy and stark with few personal touches adorning its surfaces or decorating its walls. Books filled the shelves, but they were mostly medical texts. Despite her feeble efforts to make the apartment a home, it still looked like a hotel room to her, especially when she compared it to House's place.

His digs looked lived in. His personal touch was everywhere in the interior. There was warmth in the masculine wood and leather theme of the furnishings that made her feel welcomed and embraced. In direct contrast to the adjectives that most often were used to describe him, adjectives like _pathetic_ and _miserable_, his home was filled with life, and in evidence were some of his pleasures: books, music, and art. The prominent presence of his baby grand anchored the interior of the townhouse and gave it a soul that came to life at the touch of its master.

Those who knew House peripherally, those who knew him only by reputation, be it his reputation for being an exceptionally talented diagnostician and a great brain, or his reputation for being an egotistical ass, often missed the fact that House had an inner life. His brain contained fully furnished rooms, she thought. Some he kept locked. Those were the rooms where dust cloths covered up the hurt. At least, that was how she imagined it.

It was obvious that House had, over a period of years, amassed a collection of black-and-white photographs, many of them indicating an interest in architecture and design. Other items, like the phrenology heads and his collection of old medical instruments, reflected House's interest in medicine and its history. And there was the cactus she gave him, still alive and well sharing space with all kinds of books. Dante kept time with Descartes. A biography of John Coltrane rubbed shoulders with a book on Frank Lloyd Wright.

She sat on her sofa and pulled off her boots as she scrutinized her living room. A more accurate term for it would be a waiting room, she decided with a frown. The only personal item she had on display was the framed photograph from her wedding day where she stood between John and Joe, arms looped around both their waists, the smiles on all three faces strained with the burden of John's prognosis.

Cameron sighed.

Her marriage hadn't been about physical passion, and it hadn't been about bliss. She had married John because he had wanted her to marry him and because she could understand why. He had wanted a beautiful wife. He had wanted a normal life, even if that life would only last six months. Her biggest regret was that she never got pregnant because above all, John had wanted a child to carry on his name. Her marriage was her acknowledgment that if you believe that something is right, you act on your convictions. Everything else in life – including life itself – was precarious and impermanent.

In the photograph, John and Joe looked like mere boys. John would never grow older, and Joe was still living in Illinois, working as a bartender and hanging out with his old frat buddies. Last time they had talked, the only thing they had in common was a ghost.

Walking to her closet, she hung up her coat.

Up above her clothes were the old shoeboxes that contained her photography. Soon, sitting cross-legged with a cup of coffee on the floor of her bedroom, she flipped through stacks of photographs. Most of them were close-ups. She could never get close enough to the things that moved her the most. Like the little red berries clustered on the end of a tree branch in winter, tiny red circles of hope. She had used T-Max black and white film for that shot, sticking to the Pentax K-1000 SLR her father had given her when she was 10, that and a macro lens. Later she'd scanned the image and added the red.

There was a series of a single oak leaf. Oak leaves lasted forever. Did they ever biodegrade? She loved their strength, but the one she'd picked to capture was so decrepit that spidery veins spread across its surface. Those images she'd washed in a greenish-blue hue that evoked within her a pensive mood.

Her favorite pictures were the ones she'd shot of the insides of flowers, the secret, sexually charged, sickly-sweet-smelling cavities where bees or butterflies stuck their genitals. The images were so close up that they were seriously abstracted, but still there was a discernible power to the blur of color that stirred her imagination.

Cameron made a decision. She would frame some of her work and put it up in her apartment. So it didn't fit the modern, pedestrian rooms. So what? It was a part of who she had been, who she hoped to be again – a person who loved beauty and truth.

The phone rang, and she picked up. For a moment, there was silence, and then the voice she heard penetrating her eardrum was House's.

"Want to have breakfast later? You eat breakfast … I eat breakfast. We could eat it together. Worked out OK yesterday even if you did cheat at 20 Questions." He hesitated, and when she remained silent, he continued, "I'm cooking. You coming?"

"A date. So soon? Sure you're not rushing yourself?" She gathered up the photos, laying out a few that she decided to have framed.

"It's about momentum. Gotta kick the ball and keep it rolling, otherwise I'll end up sitting on the sidelines for another couple years while you figure out that Chase is … just as complicated as I am. That he's as damaged as me."

Again she paused before replying.

"And according to your theory that would make him irresistible. You say you're cooking? Does that mean Egg McMuffins? No sausage for me; it tastes like sawdust."

"Omelets," he said. "Fresh basil. Feta cheese. Roma tomatoes. Garlic. In butter, not olive oil."

"You … don't cook."

"So you say."

"So Wilson reports. When he stayed with you he … you ate all his food. You … couldn't stop talking about his macadamia nut pancakes."

She heard him yawn into the phone and hang up. She waited. The phone rang again.

"One hour," he said. "Don't be late."

"Is there a … dress code?"

"Can't find fault with your birthday suit," he said, ending the call.

Cameron stood, the phone pressed against her forehead, and slowly began to unbutton the green button-down shirt that belonged to G. House.

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A/N: Sorry updates have been sporadic. That's what I get for attempting to work on more than one multi-chapter fic. If you want to see more soon let me know since I'm juggling this story with the other ones that are in-the-works ... 


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